I haven't been nearly as conscientious about writing about my travels as I had hoped. I've been to New York City over 10 times and still haven't written a single post about it, but sometimes it's the little towns that inspire one to get writing again and that is what Port Matilda, Pennsylvania did for me...
A few week-ends ago a friend of mine suggested the mad idea of riding our bicycles to Port Matilda. Normally I only ride my bike when the car is broken, or there is no petrol in it, or when there is nowhere cheap to park, or when Ivor and I can't decide who will be the designated driver for the evening, but I certainly don't do it for ... fun!
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| Don't be fooled... 8 miles means still many km's to go | |
The draw card however, was the opportunity to eat at Clem's Wood-Fired BBQ. One of the best things about America (certainly 1 of the top 5 in my book) is barbecue. While every country seems to have their own take on cooking meat outdoors, the American version of slow cooking meat for many hours over a wood fire is ridiculously delectable, so delectable, in fact, that I willingly agreed to ride my rusty purple Walmart bicycle 12 miles (19.311233 km) to Port Matilda.
http://www.clemsfire.com/ This type of barbecue should not, however, be confused with the other American version of throwing a hamburger patty on a gas grill and calling it a barbeque.
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| Bellefonte Central Bicycle Path |
The town of Port Matilda is in fact, and I apologise to the 638 (yes I looked that up on wikipedia) residents, a shithole. I didn't know that yet and I actually quite liked the quaint sound of the name and so, on a sunny Saturday morning, our group of 4 set off. We met at Sunset Park in State College and started down the Bellefonte Central bicycle path. It's a lovely path that I had never used before and I was almost enjoying myself as we weaved through the golf course at Toftrees. The major uphill out of Happy Valley was a climb of over 600 feet. I've always joked about the 'mountains' in Pennsylvania being merely hills but I withdraw that now that I've pedaled over them. There was, I must admit, some swearing and gnashing of teeth but the view from the top smoothed away those tired leg muscles and woe.
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| An accurate representation of the size of town |
It took longer than the 70 minutes Google promised but we arrived in Port Matilda in time for lunch and I was rather looking forward to over-eating after my morning workout. We looked out for Clem's but couldn't see it anywhere. We rode, up this way and that, covering the whole of the 0.6 square miles that makes up Port Matilda at least 3 times. We used the iPhone and the GPS but each time, while technology said we were there, we couldn't see anything that resembled a wood-fire barbecue restaurant at all. Actually besides the gas station and the pizza joint there wasn't much else to speak of. Eventually we saw 2 of the 638 locals and asked them for assistance and they announced that Clem's had moved 2 years previously to Tyrone (a larger, but equally shitty town) 20 miles further down the road. The swearing, gnashing of teeth and woe returned. We unrelentingly released our fury on our friend whose suggestion it had been until she offered an alternative.
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| Uphills! |
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Plan B was to go to Way Fruit Farm. We stopped at the gas station for some cold energy drinks before heading off for the 3 mile trip. I decided to double check Google's directions with a local to make sure it, too, hadn't moved. An old man was sitting outside the store at the gas station (what else is there to do on a Saturday afternoon in Port Matilda) and when I asked him for directions to the Farm he took one look at my bicycle and began to chuckle. "Good luck getting there on that thing," he snorted. At least 2 and a half miles of the 3 mile journey were brutal uphills over a mountain. I'm sure that, although the 2 boys insisted they were stopping every 100 yards or so just to wait for us girls to catch up, they were, in fact, struggling too. I pushed my bike and felt no shame. About 20 minutes into the journey a large truck pulled up alongside me and the old man from the gas station waved happily while laughing and offering a tow. I'm pretty sure he only left the social hub of the gas station to have a good chuckle at us.
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| Almost there... |
Eventually we reached the top of the mountain and saw the sign for Way Fruit Farm with the directions "bottom of hill turn left". It's incredible how quickly one can descend a mountain that took an hour to climb. We were there in 3 minutes.
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| Way Fruit Farm and our trusty transport |
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We dashed to the Way Cafe where we gulped down fresh deli sandwiches chased by a bounty of ice-cream. When we were sufficiently replenished we wandered through the country crafts and abundant farm produce in the store. Way Fruit Farm is a sixth generation family owned and run farm which started in 1872 and well worth the trip (by car) for anyone in the area. It was strawberry season while we were there and many families and couples were out in the field picking their own strawberries for purchase. I however, rejected the urge to procure the many delicious offerings purely because the idea of cycling the 12 miles home with a fresh pork roast and a pound of apples was a little more than I could bear.
http://www.wayfruitfarm.com/
The way home was tedious but we managed to get there before the rain. All in all we did about 50km and it took 7 hours. I thought I may never forgive my friend for her mad suggestion but when my bike was locked up and my feet were up on the couch I realsied that I had, indeed, enjoyed a wonderful day.
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| The gorgeous green of Pennsylvania |
