Travels with Charlwood: Go Sox

The weather has at last decided to turn in our favour, gone is the rain and thick fog that spoilt the visit to Newport, Rhode Island, to be replaced by sunshine for my personal highlight of the trip Boston, the cradle of America's short history. Again I have elected to use the Hop on Hop off trolley bus, which today left from the Cruise Terminal, which is handy as the shrapnel in my ankle is playing up and I am not far off John Wayne mode. We are greeted by our driver come guide Laurent, who is a native Bostonian and a happy chap. Only been ashore ten minutes and I am already on my fifth "Have a nice day". Off we go and I immediately spot that as in New York these colonials do persist in driving on the wrong side of the road, and as if to prove my point a posse of ambulances go rushing past, quickly followed by several more, with lights flashing and various tones of horn, hooters that make a sound like a moose on heat, or the death throes of a fatally wounded bagpipe. Laurent warns us there could be a lot, of this today as they are having a Civil Defence exercise, oh happy day. I notice one or two fellow cruisers making fine adjustments to their deaf aids. We soon start racking up the points of interest, the freedom trail, the USS Constitution, Quincy Market, Boston Common, The Cheers Bar, Paul Revere's statue and workshop, but eventually we reach the place I want to visit again Fenway Park, the home of Boston Red Sox baseball team. I debus and go to the "Bleachers Bar" and have a pint of Sam Adams IPA (made to an English recipe) while surveying the pitch and the famous Green Monster wall in left field, I spend a happy half hour just drinking in the atmosphere and chatting to other devotees who have made the pilgrimage from all over the globe, all to soon it is time to move on and pickup the next trolley. I talk to some people who had the "genuine" sons of Liberty experience on board a mock up of one of the ships that carried the tea that helped to spark the American War of Independence, throwing a mocked up bale of tea into the harbour,for which act of vandalism they got a genuine certificate, that Hank was going to get framed and hang in his "Man Cave" and if I ever visit Greensboro there will be a warm welcome for me and my cute accent. I never reciprocated. Now back to the ship and reality, a sit down, with a skinny latte, some painkillers and a salad and the quiet (joke or irony) of two fellow Scottish diners having a conversation four tables apart in the guttural tones of East end Glasgow accent, and I didn't understand one word they uttered it sounded more like the aforementioned horns and sirens. Till we meet again beautiful Boston.