I went daytripping with my friend Rich Saturday, after a morning crew clean-up at the Victory Gardens. 

We have a new modular irrigation system (thanks largely to a grant from the New England Grass Roots Environmental Fund), which allows us to use water much more efficiently over our seven acres of gardens, so I spent the morning learning about it and how to make repairs when it springs a leak.

The new system has shut-off valves in every row, a huge leap forward for us.  In the past, a problem somewhere in the line meant the whole system essentially had to be shut down and someone with special expertise called to come fix it.  The idea of the new system is to isolate minor breaks and allow anyone, more or less, to make repairs. 

We have also had to address water waste after dark.  That anyone could turn on a spigot at any time, and night visitors often did without bothering to turn them off again, was a big source of waste, not to mention regular flooding of paths and gardens.  The days of the garden bidet are over, boys.

The first thing the current board did to deal with it was to invest in a timer that automatically shuts off the master valve at night, and turns it back on in the morning (something that had to be done manually before).  Next the permanent spigot handles were removed and each gardener was issued one of his or her own to use.

Despite instances of vandalism over the winter, the system seems to be working well so far.  We're conserving water, while having it available with far fewer interruptions than in years past.

So anyway, Rich wanted to take me to his favorite little clam shack around the bend from Wentworth by the Sea on the little Isle of New Castle.  Although Rich is from North Carolina (and still has that sweet little drawl), his grandparents had settled in the area, and he had spent part of his boyhood summers in New Castle and neighboring Portsmouth.

Outside of Boston I still feel like a tourist — and frankly am. I don't mind, actually, since I get to tag along on trips like this.  I mean, folks take tremendous pride in their clam shacks.  Everybody's got a favorite they've been going to for years, so several times a summer I get invited on what amounts to more or less a culinary pilgrimage.

Which is perfect, since I'm a sort of a culinary Mary Magdalene — basically I'm a food whore.  Not a "foodie".  I don't have an "ardent or refined interest in food."  certainly not refined in any sense of the word.  And as for interest, I get especially ardent when I'm hungry. 

So this was right up my alley.

The main ingredient of the perfect clam shack, aside from fried clams of course, is an utter lack of pretension.  They're called "shacks" for a reason.  They typify for me the unpretentious charms of the small coastal New England villages that visitors to the region (myself included) fall in love with. 

After burgers, fried clams and frappes (not too runny, not too lumpy) we hung out on a sparsely populated beach with a view of his grandparents' house, chatted, and watched the ocean...


It was the perfect New England beach day.  Overcast.  The water was frigid. 

"Come on in!" Rich urged, taking his shoes off. 

I was communing with a snail further up the beach.

"Just up to your knees!" he prodded.

We both waded out.  It was so cold it hurt.

"Kinda aches doesn't it?" he said, turning around and wading the four or five steps back to dry land.  "It gets warmer in July."

I'm skeptical. 

We stopped off in Portsmouth for a coffee and to watch the little cruise boats coming and going to the Isle of Shoals.

And then we headed back to Boston.

Simple pleasures.  Summer days.