Postcards from the Ledge

I had never been to New England before. Most of my travels in the States have been west of the Continental Divide: deserts, big mountains, and wide-open spaces. Terry, on the other hand, grew up in Connecticut, and had long tempted me with stories of quaint coastal towns, leafy suburbs, sailing, lobster rolls, and other Yankee traditions—not to mention all that history. During the American Revolution, Paul Revere galloped along the road where Terry’s childhood home now stands, delivering messages between Boston and Philadelphia. That is how New England landed on my road-trip hit list. And we had to go in October when the maples and oaks are aflame in their autumn splendor.

Terry had not been back to Connecticut in forty years—she was the last of the Mulcahy clan to migrate west—which made the trip feel especially meaningful. I wanted to see her hometown of Fairfield through her eyes: the streets she had walked and the shoreline that had shaped her childhood. As luck would have it, her brother Mike had recently moved back to Fairfield, so we used his place as our home base for an 800 mile loop through five New England states. Our plan was simple: we flew into JFK at midnight, picked up the rental car, and drove straight to Fairfield. Ninety minutes later, we were knocking on Mike’s front door.

Our 2-week route.

One more thing before we move on: the Postcards blog is gradually becoming a shared effort. I’ve come to depend on Terry’s contributions—especially photographs—now that she’s retired and we’re traveling more together. I do the writing and reflecting, and she helps bring it all to life.

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Fairfield, Connecticut

We spent the first few days in Fairfield with Mike, easing into the town’s rhythm with no formal agenda. The first morning, after a leisurely breakfast, we took a four-mile hike in the nearby woods, rambling along leaf-covered trails and rippling streams. An old stone wall half hidden in the underbrush made us feel like we’d slipped into another century—two centuries, most likely.

Mike drove us all over town, pointing out the creek where he and his brother Pat would go fishing; the Catholic church that they attended; Terry’s high school; teenage hangouts like Jenning’s Beach and where Terry learned to sail on Long Island Sound. It was akin to flipping through an old yearbook. A special highlight for me was seeing their childhood home on Old Post Road, a Colonial-style gem built in 1920. Terry pointed to her bedroom window on the second floor, the bedroom that she had shared with her sister Kathy. All the stories I’d heard over the years came rushing back as I envisioned eight rambunctious Mulcahy kids romping in the front yard. And how many people can say Paul Revere rode past their house during the American Revolution?

Fairfield’s story began in 1639, when Puritans from the Massachusetts Bay Colony moved south and acquired Paugussett land along the coast (some purchased, some stolen). The settlement soon became part of the Connecticut Colony and had grown to about 4,000 people by the time of the American Revolution. By then, Fairfield was a formidable Patriot stronghold and vocal supporter of independence, which prompted British forces to burn it to the ground in 1779. Today, it is worlds apart from those colonial days: a charming historic town on Connecticut’s affluent Gold Coast, with tree-lined streets, old homes, and just fifty miles by commuter train to New York City.

Terry's childhood home on Old Post Road.
Her bedroom was on upper floor at right.

With Terry's brother, Mike, at Jennings Beach. It's
just a few blocks from their Old Post Road house.

Jennings Beach

Mike's dogs, Bailey and Smokey.

Terry's high school.

Hiking in the woods, three miles from downtown Fairview.

Mill River

Lake Mohegan

Day Trip to New Haven

The following morning, Terry and I drove twenty-five miles down the coast to New Haven, another town that got its start in the mid-17th century. The day was sunny, albeit cool and blustery—the kind of weather that slips under your jacket and makes every patch of sun feel heaven-sent. (Welcome to New England in October.)

Our first stop was Albertus Magnus, the Catholic liberal-arts college for women that Terry graduated from. We parked and wandered the campus as she slipped easily into reminiscence, pointing out her old dorm, the library where she once crammed for finals while snow piled up outside, and the student center, the bookstore, the tennis courts, each place reviving another memory.

A half-mile down the street from Albertus Magnus stands Yale University, one of the eight Ivy League schools and the third-oldest university in the United States. We took a slow drive through campus. Founded in 1701, Yale felt vast and imposing beside the intimacy of Terry’s school, with its Gothic buildings, bell towers, stone archways, and narrow streets alive with ambitious young people. Terry recalled that, back in the day, Yale had the best parties. (Hmmm.)

After our sightseeing endeavor, we ducked into an Irish pub near the town center and ordered Guiness with fish and chips: a fulfilling meal after a busy morning. There was something ordinary and satisfying about it. No rush. No agenda. On the way back to the car, we walked along the New Haven Green, a 16‑acre grassy square at the heart of the original township. Today it looks like a typical town common—nurtured lawns, big trees, footpaths crossing everywhere—but it has an uncanny backstory. You see, the Puritan founders sized the Green to hold exactly 144,000 people: the number they had calculated would be saved at the Second Coming of Christ. Yet there we were, strolling along on a breezy afternoon, passing dog walkers and students toting backpacks with Starbucks coffee in hand... I can only speculate that we are still waiting.

Albertus Magnus campus. Founded in 1925 by the
Dominican Sisters of Saint Mary of the Springs.

Albertus Magnus originally operated out of a single estate house called
Rosary Hall, which contained classrooms, dorms, a chapel, and dining
room. Today, it serves as the campus library.

Sansbury Hall, one of Terry's dormitories.

Driving through Yale campus.

Urinal instructions in the men's
room at an Irish pub near Yale.

Gothic Yale

Mystic Seaport

On Day 3, Terry and I pack up the car and set out for Massachusetts—but not before making one final stop in Connecticut: the old seaport of Mystic. Terry assured me I’d like it, and that was good enough for me.

Located at the mouth of a river of the same name, this small coastal hamlet is a historical gem. It had been a native Pequot village for centuries, called Missi-Tuk ("great tidal river"), but after a violent conflict with invasive European colonists in the 1630s, the Pequots surrendered the land. The colonists then Anglicized the settlement’s name to Mystic, and in the ensuing years, developed it into a prosperous seaport and later a center for shipbuilding. From 1784 to 1919, about 600 ships were built here—an impressive total for a town of its size.

The shipbuilding yards are long gone now, replaced by vacation homes, restaurants and boutique hotels. We strolled downtown, browsing the gift shops while the Mystic River Drawbridge lifts to allow a large sailboat to pass downstream. The famous Mystic Pizza is here, still buoyed by its movie connection and popular with tourists. A few blocks away, quiet streets lined with well-kept vintage homes reflect the town’s pride: fresh paint, neat gardens, and mature trees shading narrow sidewalks.

The highlight was the Mystic Seaport Museum, a living-history site that immerses you in another era. Part of the Mystic River waterfront has been restored to look like the 1870s, with staff in 19th-century attire going about daily routines as though steamships were still the latest technology. Vintage wooden vessels are moored to the docks, the smell of tar and salt in the air, and the sound of hand tools at work in restored workshops. The setting is somewhat theatrical, but it also feels grounded, making it easy to picture the shipbuilders who once labored here.

In short, I was glad we made the detour. Mystic is more than a charming coastal town; it holds centuries of history in a way that feels both authentic and approachable, the kind of place that stays with you.

Downtown’s Mystic River Drawbridge was completed
in 1922. It allows vehicle traffic and maritime vessels
—especially sailboats—to share the waterway.

The original Mystic Pizza that the 1988 movie was based on: a coming-of-age
rom-com about three young waitresses in Mystic, Connecticut, navigating
love, friendship, and life after high school while working at a pizza parlor.
The film afforded breakout roles for both Julia Roberts and Matt Damon.

Blocks and blocks of restored vintage homes.

The Mystic Seaport Museum was established in 1929 and took decades to
complete. It was one of the first living-history museums in the country, with
a collection of buildings and craftsmen to show how people lived in the era.

Mystic Seaport Museum waterfront.

The 19th-century waterfront features the full range of trades needed to build and run a sailing fleet, including a chandlery, sail lofts, a cooperage, carpenter workshops, a shipping agent’s office, and a printing shop. There is also The Spouter Tavern, which serves “traveler’s fare and ale.”

The Charles Morgan was launched in 1841 in New Bedford, Massachusetts.
A profitable whaling ship, it spent 80 years at sea and completed 37 voyages
around the world. Known in maritime circles as a “lucky ship,” it survived
fierce storms and dangerous Arctic ice. After retirement, it narrowly escaped
destruction and was fully restored to its original condition.

Aboard the Morgan.

At the helm.

A 19th-century merchant ship captain's home.

Boston, Massachusetts

Being a history buff, Boston had been on my must-see list for years. It’s an intriguing city: cobblestones, brick townhouses, colonial steeples, modern high-rises, and a story on every corner. We lodged at a hotel in the Beacon Hill historical district, which was perfect for getting around on foot to everything we wanted to see. Our wanderings actually felt more like traveling through time than checking off attractions.

Boston’s history stretches back nearly four centuries to its founding by Puritans in 1630. It soon became the capital of the Massachusetts Bay Colony and a thriving seaport and also established America’s first public school and first college (Harvard). It played a leading role in the drive for independence from England, earning the nickname “Cradle of the American Revolution.” It was also heavily involved in the Abolitionist Movement. You could say that Boston was very progressive for its time: a place where people were willing to argue, protest, and push for change. But it was also about people building new lives from scratch. The Irish Potato Famine of the 1840s brought waves of Irish Catholic immigrants who faced harsh discrimination but gradually gained acceptance and political power. Their influence still shows in the neighborhoods, pubs, parades, and Irish surnames on storefronts and businesses.

Today, the city hums along on a knowledge-based economy, its many institutions—MIT, Harvard, Boston U, Northeastern—giving it an energetic, slightly geeky buzz. Students and researchers fill cafés with laptops, and you sense that somewhere nearby, someone is quietly changing the world over coffee. Who knows? Then there are the things that make Boston distinctly Boston. It hosts the Boston Marathon, the oldest and most prestigious foot race in the world. And you cannot forget the Boston Red Sox and Fenway Park, major league baseball’s oldest ballpark. They offer stadium tours, and we wanted to go. But alas, time was running out. With only two days to explore, we knew we couldn’t see everything.

Old North Church rises from a modern skyline. Signal lanterns hung in the steeple
would warn the Patriots when the British were coming: “One if by land, and two
if by sea.”

THE FREEDOM TRAIL

One of the highlights of our stay was the Freedom Trail walking tour. This 2½-mile route from Beacon Hill to North End is brimming with stories as it passes sixteen key sites in U.S. history. Our small tour group made it easy to ask questions and interact with the guide, who knew Boston’s history inside and out and was genuinely engaging. The two hours flew by—and yet it left a lasting impression.

Our guide, Marcus, begins the tour in Boston Common. The 44-acre
Common, established in 1634, is America’s oldest public park. It
began as “common land,” where residents grazed livestock. It also
has a darker history as the site of Puritan punishments, with a
whipping post and public executions that enforced religious and
civil order. Pirates, murderers, and accused witches were hanged
from the “Great Elm” through the 17th and 18th centuries.

Park Street Church was completed in 1809 and became a defining feature
of the skyline. The steeple is 217 feet tall, and for many years, it was the
first landmark travelers saw when approaching the city by land or sea.

The Granary Cemetery, established in 1660, is one of Boston’s oldest and most
significant burial grounds. It evolved from a simple colonial burying place into
a landmark where notable citizens rest, including Declaration signers,
Revolutionary War heroes, clergy, and civic leaders. There are about 2,300
gravestones, though many more are likely buried in unmarked graves. The
carvings and inscriptions reveal changing views on death, religion, and
society, making the cemetery both a place of remembrance and a record of
early American culture.

The five men who were killed in the Boston Massacre.

Samuel Adams: ardent Patriot activist; co-founder of Sons of
Liberty; became known as “Father of the American Revolution.”

Paul Revere: Master blacksmith and
silversmith; legendary patriot; folk hero.

Bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin marks the site of original
Boston Latin School. Founded in 1635, it is the oldest public
school in America. Franklin attended, as did Samuel Adams,
John Hancock, and Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The Old South Meeting House became a key gathering place where Patriots organized resistance to British policies. It is best known for Samuel Adams’s speeches that galvanized public opinion against the Tea Act and resulted in the Boston Tea Party.

Built in 1713, the Old State House is Boston’s oldest surviving public building.

Standing on the site of the Boston Massacre. Patriot leaders portrayed it as a deliberate slaughter of innocent civilians, but it was in fact a tense clash in which nervous British soldiers fired into a mob of rock-throwing malcontents. Five colonists were killed and six wounded. The event entered history as a “massacre” largely because of an effective spin campaign by the Sons of Liberty.

On the Freedom Trail in North End.

Built around 1680, the Paul Revere House is the oldest remaining
structure in downtown Boston.

Bronze statue of Paul Revere near Old North Church.

USS CONSTITUTION

My number-one aspiration in Boston was to visit the USS Constitution. I could hardly wait to walk her decks, smelling the oiled wood and that fusion of salt air and history. But six days before we flew to New England, the federal government shut down. Tours of the Constitution were canceled. Gates closed. Access denied. Not because of a storm or unforeseen disaster, but because Congress—yes, those losers you and I voted for—refused to pass a budget. They wouldn’t compromise; they wouldn’t budge. Instead, they shut the government down and forced postal workers and air traffic controllers to work without pay for 43 days while Congress KEPT GETTING PAID to do nothing, so fire the scumbags, my poodle can do a better job. But don’t get me started.

The Constitution was built at a Boston shipyard and launched in 1797. She was a
heavily armed frigate with an exceptionally thick oakwood hull that earned her the
nickname “Old Ironsides.”

Armed with 52 naval cannons. Capable of hurling
700 pounds of solid iron in a single broadside.

A painting of the Constitution dueling with the British HMS Guerriere
during the War of 1812. The Guerriere was de-masted and surrendered.

Cycling in New England - Part I

We spent our last day in Boston with our friends Susan and Allen, whom we had met ten years ago on a Backroads cycling tour in Ireland. Over miles of emerald countryside and post-ride pints of stout, we hit it off and stayed in touch. Seeing them again felt less like a visit and more like resuming the conversation. They live in Hull, a small beach town at the southern end of Boston Harbor, just up the coast from where the Mayflower landed. Terry and I caught the Boston ferry to Hull, a 30-minute scenic cruise across the bay, where Susan and Allen met us at the dock with hugs and whisked us off for a quick tour. Hull is the kind of place that makes you feel welcome—extensive sea views, sandy beaches, and storybook houses.

Our plan had been to go for a bike ride from their house if the weather held out—and it was holding out fine, with partly sunny skies. Susan and Allen are avid cyclists and kindly loaned us their spare bikes. We adjusted seats, pumped up tires, filled water bottles, and rolled down the street and into the neighborhood. However, a few minutes into the ride, just as I was settling into a good cadence, my left foot suddenly fell off the pedal—or should I say, the pedal fell off the bike. There it was, lying in the street. For a moment I didn’t grasp what had happened. I dismounted and walked back to fetch the pedal, picking it up, mortified, like I’d broken something sacred. By then, Allen had circled back to look for me. He took it in stride, simply shrugging and examining the damage. It was toast.

But hey, no problem. Susan whipped out her phone and called a friend who lived nearby, to see if they had a bike I could borrow. And, yes, they did! Before long we were at another house, meeting my new temporary ride: a vintage 10-speed with only five working gears, mismatched cables, and brakes that inspired more prayer than confidence. But the tires held air, so I was good to go. Back in the saddle, we left Hull behind and followed a winding road along the coast, past Cape Cod homes perched on jagged rocks. The sea shimmered; the wind was in your face, mile after mile. After the pedal fiasco, it was a small victory to be gliding along at a brisk pace.

We stopped in the charming town of Cohasset at a French bakery that smelled like heaven, ordering espresso and macarons, strong and sweet. Susan told us the 1987 film Witches of Eastwick was filmed in Cohasset, and once you see the town, the choice makes perfect sense. Afterwards we rode down Main Street, taking in the New England vibe: white-steepled churches, tidy homes, and friendly faces along the way.

Back in Hull, we ended the day with a sunset dinner at Jake’s, a family-owned landmark on Nantasket Beach known for its classic Cape Cod ambiance, waterfront views, and superb seafood—fried clams, lobster rolls, clam chowder, oysters, crab cakes, the catch of the day... It’s hard to beat fresh New England seafood. As the sky blazed in technicolor hues, we sat with good friends, tired legs, and empty plates—a perfect end to the day.

Oh, and Allen… Sorry about the bike pedal. 😶