Saturdays in Belfast
The favorite day of the week . . .
One might wonder what to do in Belfast Maine, in the still of winter? Does everything shut down or are there still things to explore? But . . .
This four-block town is stuffed with boutiques that cater to the creative, to the earth-friendly, to the wine and cheese connoisseur. They are big on both supporting local artisans and on llama wool (it’s four times warmer than sheep wool as it’s hollow, like moose hair — “get yours now”).
“too tuckered to share about our days after dark, we will simply exchange a blissful sigh and a twinkle in each eye.”
In a moment, I am off to the post office, whose building sits at the top of the hill, proudly displaying handmade lampshades in unique patterns from the windows of the store above. They cast warm amber through the rectangular panes against the backdrop of steely winter blues. After chatting with neighbors outside who wait in line to send their chilled parcels, I’ll scoot over to the year-round, indoor farmer’s market, perhaps ringing the bell of a shop door or two as I pop in as a reprieve from the cold, as much as to inspire my creative juices with their displays.
At the farmer’s market, I will find a harp player, melodies strumming and plunking through the happy babble of customers — the vendors offering “Care for a sweet pickled garlic sample? Have you tried our blueberry lemonade?” . . . And it really does taste as very berry as the “Violet, you’re turning violet, Violet” chewing gum no doubt tasted from the famous Willy Wonka scene. I will wistfully yearn for the space and wealth to support every one of the silk, basket, felt, and ink artisans that the market spills over with weekly, and feel a swell of pride in them for bearing such beautiful wares with each nimble turn of their fingers in the evening hours. I’ll stop to admire my favorites of the week as I make my way towards yet more stands of local sausage, potpies, creamy panna cotta and . . . did I mention alpaca wool?
I will end the jaunt at the booth of the Italian fellow, Massimo, who generously takes his time with each special guest, no matter the size of the line. He’ll give me a sample of the holiday Panpepato fig loaf he plans to sell for the season. He’ll ask me to guess the ingredients as I look quizzical and deliciously distracted: clove, espresso, cracked pepper and 20 others that conjur tastes of childhood and pleasant dreams.
Then, with coffee warm in hand, I’ll stop at the local park and slowly walk the labyrinth, considering what I wish to leave in the center (COVID anxiety, uncertainty, limiting beliefs) that no longer serves me and what new tools I want to walk away with: creative problem-solving, community-building, and a pair of alpaca socks.
Around dark, Wes will return, sore and satisfied from his work on the Schooner Hindu. Too tuckered to share about our days after dark, we will simply exchange a blissful sigh and a twinkle in each eye.
