Don't Call Me Ishmael: Points East: The Slug-Man of Kennebunk, Saved by South Portland

Summer stayed behind as entered our week in northern New England. New Hampshire flashed its coat and sweater weather as we raced away from Manchester and onto Portsmouth, the last Granite State stop for those heading north on the coast.

Escaping the drizzle, we found two spots at the bar of the Portsmouth Gas Light Co. After a few Pumpkin beers, a lobster BLT for Nancy and clam chowder and haddock for me, we headed out to crowded but drier streets.

Portsmouth had lost none of its charm since my last visit, and its cobblestones looked even redder We crossed the new U.S. 1 bridge into Kittery, the actual location of the Portsmouth Naval Yards.

Sweet Portsmouth

Another 50 clicks on U.S. 1 greeted us with fall scenery and a few stiff traffic jams, but no major problems. We enjoyed the small towns and breezed ahead on our way to Kennebunk. Relaxation had already set in.

But the Slug-Man of Kennebunk would not be so accommodating. I called for directions and the man on the other end seemed perplexed. When I got there, he lurched out of lounge couch and waddled to the register.

Here’s what happened, and what he would not tell me – there was some major event going on in Portland.

Combined with the balmy autumn weather and close proximity to the rest of New England, it was a popular place. Hotels could essentially charge what they wanted. My $80 reserved rate could be easily deleted from the system when he could charge double that for rooms only a fence away from where semis queued up around the clock.

I’ll leave out the name of the Slug-Man’s hotel. I won’t leave his woefully dated diamond stud earring, which was pinned to one of the few non-gelatinous portions of his bulk. I just wanted to leave before I did something I could not take back. He muttered, “Sorry” one last time as I thumped the door open. Rather than call him out, I just said, “Don’t be,” knowing full well he would not be sorry. After all, his hotel was full. Another half-dozen hotels would pass in a blur. In a panic I called our hotel in Bar Harbor to assure our reservation had not been given away. It hadn’t.

Our saving grace in South Portland

The Slug-Man was a peculiar specimen. His full hotel was not. South Portland had many full hotels. After numerous dead-ends, we passed a small motor court with a Vacancy light lit on its sign. I asked the manager if the sign was working properly and he immediately panicked, missing my joke entirely. The room cost twice what we planned for Kennebunk, but we had a room. If we had no desire to venture out, we didn’t have to leave.

Of course we let 30 minutes pass before heading to downtown Portland, the state’s largest city. From South Portland, a separate city, the drive took all of 10 minutes to wind into downtown Portland.

For a town of 60,000, Portland pulsed with the energy of a much larger city. It was undoubtedly aided by weekenders from further south in New England. The streets slanted down to the harbor and we took our time wandering while admiring the architecture that had been preserved well. The streets were easy to navigate but the bar we sought hid itself well. It had help from a cadre of buskers that not only blocked the Novares Res sandwich on the street but approached everyone on the patch of sidewalk. Limp chords weren’t earning them much on this Saturday.

One of Portland's many enchanting streets

Finally, we found the magic alley that hosted Novares Res, Portland’s renown beer bar. After fighting our way to order, we emerged with some choice pours (Rising Tide Daymark for Nancy, Vapeur Saison de Pipaix for me).

We sat at the picnic tables outside and ran through our day, formulating plans for the rest of our evening. It was a young crowd on the deck, many in a cornhole match and several sets of dreadlocks. Although we started the day at 5:30 a.m., 9 p.m. had not yet arrived. With the dark killing our opportunities to capture photogenic Portland, we agreed to return in the morning the walk the streets, docks and slopes (note the evidence below).

Bad waitressing at Gritty McDuff’s led us back to the streets before the Red Sox finished another half-inning. The place was half-full but the waitress practically ran back to her dinner and smart phone after not taking our order. We had better luck at the Pearl Tap House, Nancy had a few whiskies and I had the Gritty’s Halloween Ale I planned to order earlier plus a nice Maine IPA.

Rather than linger downtown and take a chance on another place with surly staff, we decided to head back to hunt down Sea Dog. Although based further east in Bangor, the brewery operated a South Portland brewpub just a mile or two from the Maine Motel. Sea Dog was more of a suburban restaurant than an earthy microbrewery, but we were not concerned.

Sure, it is a chain with multiple locations, but the fresh beer could not be contained. The second we smelled that delicious blueberry ale across the room, location no longer matters. Nancy scored with a grapefruit-peach ale not listed anywhere on their website but tasted livelier than most attempts at fruit ale.

As we left, I attempted to pose like the brewery’s mascot, but the long day of travel resulted in a weak facsimile. Soon we hunkered down in the Maine Motel, sleeping deeply before our daylong journey to Bar Harbor.