A Day with my Richmond favorites

5 of my favorite things in Richmond:

1 - the Linden Row Inn

We stayed at the Linden this visit. It is definitely one of my favorites in Richmond. There are long wooden porches with rocking chairs overlooking the center garden area. So much history in the wonderful large windowed place.

2 - Stella's Grocery

Just around the corner is Stella's Grocery and they have an espresso bar and local Richmond goodies. It was a new find for me and definitely a highlight of our quick trip.

3 - Trail Hut

Another shop definitely worth visiting that is close to the Inn is the Trail Hut. They have outdoor clothes and equipment on consignment housed in what looks like an old carriage house.

4 - Perly's

Perly's is a Jewish restaurant and delicatessen. It was originally opened in 1961 by Harry and Mary Perlstein who sold it in 1978 and the current owner has brought it back to the "traditional Jewish cuisine but with a modern flare".

The french toast was the best I have ever had in my life and the beef bacon, oh my! Everything was excellent. I want to drive back to Richmond just to eat there again and try more of their food.

5 - Poe Museum

Casi and I did not go there this trip, we took the tour at the Valentine's Museum so I could see the sculpture studio but last time I was in Richmond, April and I went to the Poe Museum and it is definitely a favorite of mine and probably most any writer.

What are some of your favorite spots in Richmond?

What I Gained

I didn’t know why I wrote the novel Paradise until I had gained what I did gain on its last day of writing. Then I knew.

My long nautical experience on the Gulf of Maine and my excitement to intertwine seafaring exploration with the questing of the human spirit was my theme.

But what I gained? Wait and see.

To me, what I gained was both astounding and laudable.

One day, I experimented with a first paragraph – capture the language; capture the voice -- because that paragraph might take me away.

Alas, there was no sea where I was. But an evocative paragraph might take me to sea.

Before morning, the gale blew itself away. The man on the raft scarcely saw the change, however, for the three days since the foundering of the Roman ship had been savage to pass. His limbs were numb from exposure to cold. The rope by which he had tied himself had chafed through his jerkin and into his skin. His eyes were glued by mucus and salt. The change occurred, and he guessed it in the dim revolutions of his mind only by the passivity of the wind. He did not care. That about which he cared now lay deep in the green cold of the Western Sea; on the bottom, where cod motivated this way and that, and where the slow, shelled ooze snailed its way across sword and axe, hoe and pail.

Sitting in my tiny office in hot humid summer, immediately, I was cold, wet, in pain. I was very excited to know what would happen next, when that man’s raft was tossed – as I knew it would be – against an outcrop of desert island, and he would claw his way over rocks and barnacles, clutching at seaweed, drowning, while he yanked his broken way to the beach, bad leg and all.

Some of you may wonder why we writers do what we do. This is why we do what we do, I anyway. We must live in a different place, time, and world than in our sweltering tiny closet at the back of a building far from sea.

In terms of the big events yet to come, I knew what was to happen on the island. In terms of the supremely big events, I knew in general what would happen in the very long run. But did I know in detail what would have happened by page 295?

No.

Some writers do know. Good for them. They work the details of their plots until they are able to write their actual tale almost as though that effort were automatic.

I’m different. I never know. I’m willing to put myself in a very anxious place. That’s what happened when I was writing Paradise.

This one’s a journey novel. It recounts the possibly historical tale of a voyage westward across the North Atlantic, Ireland to Maine, which has left us today with suggestive evidence. The sixth century A.D.: in my rendering, the journeyers were a fractious collection of Christian monks and one black, North African ironsmith, a gnostic.

One good thing about a journey novel is this. If you run out of story, just move your people fifty or a hundred miles further westward and something new will happen there.

Writerly anxiety increases over time. It took me two years to write my characters across the ocean – over-wintering them in Iceland – and to bring them ashore in what is now Camden Harbor off West Penobscot Bay, Maine, at a village of the Abnaki Indians. Three human spiritualities were clustering uncomfortably together and vying with one another – Catholic Christianity among the monks aboard the boat, gnostic awareness within the smith, American Indian mythology among the natives.

Upon my men’s arrival from the sea, the Abnaki were moved to bring them, by canoe, up the Penobscot River to Mount Katahdin’s peak, where the spirit master Cautantowit would tell them what to do about such a mysterious visitation.

I was tense during two years. I was no closer to knowing what would happen at the end of the journey than I had been when my ironsmith was dashed ashore on his desert island.

One morning, I got up at 5 am and planned to start my five sailors and two Indian women on their journey up-river. Then I would go to work.

Early next morning, in thick fog, two canoes set out from Madakamigossek, turned north along the coastline outside the harbor ledges, and disappeared.

All well. This would happen on page 229.

Then I wrote the next sentence, and the next, and then one more. I was beginning to see the scene. I was typing fast now. I asked my wife to phone the office and say I would be late to arrive.

Still more sentences. The scenes were so clear, so exact, every detail falling into line as the canoes proceeded.

I realized the story was there, it was projecting itself on the movie screen inside my forehead. I typed frenziedly to keep up.

My wife called the office a second time. Dikkon won’t come in at all (it’s good to be the boss).

I kept streaking to get the movie down. Keep going! Keep going! It was nighttime now, and the children rushed to kiss daddy goodnight.

At three am, my travelers had struggled to the summit, were on the Knife Edge of Katahdin. Joseph did what he did. Ghastly.

By midmorning, my novel was … finished.

What I gained? I gained sixteen hours of unthinkable climax written explosively not by me but by the Holy Spirit … who knew. I gained sixty-nine pages, which painted the story across each page all the way to …

THE END.

I did not finish.

God finished Paradise.

What I gained?

I gained satisfaction that what I had written until the canoes pushed off -- what I had written –

What I had written – was right.

© 2022 Dikkon Eberhart

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Dikkon Eberhart is the author of The Time Mom Met Hitler, Frost Came to Dinner, and I Heard the Greatest Story Ever Told, Paradise, and On the Verge. Dikkon is a Maine native transplanted recently to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. He is a retired salesman, former actor and food critic, and always a writer.

Read more at www.dikkoneberhart.com

Iceland: Ready, Set, Go!

After two years of going nowhere fast, due to COVID-19, my husband and I booked international flights and worked with a tour consultant through a company called Nordic Visitor. Last summer, I watched with utter fascination the eruption of a small volcano in Iceland, named Fagradalsfjall. Since then, Iceland topped my bucket list locations, and I was anticipating our upcoming trip with excitement and the type of thrill that young children experience right before traipsing downstairs on Christmas morning.

We’d have one big obstacle to overcome. As much as I loved it, my husband detests seafood. He’s a dry-land American boy who considers sushi to be nothing more than bait for his bass-fishing. And Icelanders are big on seafood—that and mutton, a meat we Americans have been slower to embrace.

Once wheels were down on the tarmac of Keflavik (pronounce the ‘f’ as a soft ‘p’.) my first view of Iceland was an iron-dark landscape similar to the moon. Reykjavik’s international airport is located in the Reykjanes Peninsula, one of the most volcanic areas of the entire island.

But Nordic Visitor did us proud. Our entire trip, from airport transfers to hotel stays, and the rental car, were all handled with ease, care, and lots of smiles. Europe’s most westward country is one of the friendliest places I’ve ever been. Not only are these Viking ancestors tall, stately, and visually gorgeous people, but their English is superb—thanks to their practical study of it, beginning when they’re only around five years old.

We had WIFI in our rental car (a hybrid, btw), a magnificent map with hand-written recommendations of interesting stops, compliments of our personal consultant, Hanna-Lara, and at each nightly stop-over squeaky-clean accommodations awaited us, along with pristine, white Scandinavian down comforters. Reykjavik is not a big town by any means, and it was easy to navigate and hit the road and begin our adventure.

We chose to travel the Ring Road, which runs clear around the island, 821.5 miles long, with an additional, curvaceous trek into the West Fjords, Iceland’s most remote area, loaded with sheep, birds, arctic fox, and dirt roads that summit flat-topped mountains known as tuyas, many without guard rails. Ahem—Iceland is not the place to fall asleep at the wheel. Seriously. As well-maintained as most of the roads are, there are rarely any shoulders, so coloring between the lines is tantamount to a safe trip!

What exactly does one do in Iceland?

First of all, you’ll drive through some of the most stunning and jaw-dropping scenery the planet has to offer. Literally, every 5-10 minutes, scenery changes—from the lava-encrusted moonscapes of geologically recent eruptions to rugged seaside vistas offering fingers of rock rising from a white-capped ocean. One minute you’re in a barren landscape of moss-covered rocks that don’t yet offer sustenance for grass, and the next, you’re in the upper elevations of tuyas, driving through snowfields and plunging canyons. In all of this extraordinary wilderness, there are opportunities to hike glaciers—safely with licensed guides and the appropriate equipment. One can walk behind towering waterfalls, which litter Iceland’s landscape more frequently than US rest areas. There are boat-tours through bays of icebergs, calving from Vatnajökull Glacier in Vatnajökull National Park —Iceland’s largest icefield, or consider visiting the picturesque fishing town of Húsavík for some whale-watching. We saw a pair of humpbacks. And every visitor must try the singular Icelandic experience of taking a dip in real, volcanic hot-springs.

The highlight for my husband had to be the Látrabjarg Bird Cliffs, where literally millions of birds nest each summer, every year. Guillamots, Arctic Terns, Seagulls, Puffins, Auks… they were everywhere. We mingled with professional photographers that day, picking our way carefully around the cliffs, since again—there are few guard rails. And if you look carefully at the rocks at the bottom of each cliff, you might see some move! Harbor Seals heave themselves out of the water to mingle in colonies. It’s a feast for the senses in a primal way—birds screaming, the stale, acrid smell of guano, sea-mist on your face, and the open view of the Greenland Sea—knowing that you’ve reached land’s end—the westernmost point in Europe.

For me, with my inclination toward all things equestrian, I just had to try riding an Icelandic Horse. These animals are the hearty descendants of steeds brought from Norway by the Vikings, a thousand years ago or more. Today, Icelanders want to maintain the purity of this breed, doing so by banning the entry of any other horses into the country. Icelandic horses may be sold to other countries, but aren’t allowed a return trip ticket. They’re sturdy, powerful creatures wrapped in small packages, most of them only 14-15 hands high. What makes them unique among other breeds is their five gaits—most horses have only three (walk, trot, canter). Add to those the Icelandic horse’s tölt (pronounced tuhlt) and the flying pace.

My experience riding was phenomenal, tölting along through a scenic valley dotted with quaint farms and snow-capped peaks on a sun-drenched afternoon. Iceland isn’t exactly a magnet for sun-worshippers, but during our two weeks stay, we enjoyed ten rain-free days. If you do visit and decide to try the tölt, be prepared to ride English. Remember that Iceland is a European country and they won’t have western saddles to cater to Americans.

If there’s a down-side to visiting the “land of ice and fire”, it’s the expense. We chose a drive-it-yourself tour, where we had our own rental car, chose our own routes, pace, and places to stop for sight-seeing and meals. Breakfast, however, was always provided. Expect to spend what you would on a visit to Alaska, and then some. We always ate big at breakfast, since it was included with our hotel stays, then would stop mid-afternoon for our meal of the day—usually at an off-beat restaurant where we could enjoy local flavors. In some locations, farmers opened their own restaurants or ice-creameries for tourists, and these places were excellent. Icelanders consume a LOT of seafood, understandably, but also enjoy lamb and yes—we actually saw “filet of foal” on the menu once. Let’s just say that my husband ate his fair share of hamburgers. Oh, and for the record, he also did the math. Right now, with the high prices of fuel everywhere, gas per gallon in Iceland measured at ALMOST $10. Ouch.

Was it worth it?

We saw this trip as a once in a lifetime experience. We bought a few select souvenirs and museum visits along the way to allow for the full Iceland experience—catered to US. So, yes. I saw this trip as one of my three BEST trips in my lifetime. Outstanding scenery, pleasant weather conditions, super adventures planned along the way, and expert planning by Nordic Visitor that kept us in clean, unique places as we made our circumnavigation around the island.

Oh, and most importantly, I finally learned how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull!

*If you’re interested in visiting Iceland, Greenland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Lapland, Finland, Ireland, or Scotland, consider working with Nordic Visitor! Ask for Hanna-Lara and tell her that Brook Allen sent you her way.

https://www.nordicvisitor.com/?rf=g100-10&utm_nooverride=1&gclid=CjwKCAjw2f-VBhAsEiwAO4lNeI8tV3hpv9ayYNtC0Dwpao8Tty4YXftsqCV8HDzImObn6QM63sLxARoCrDMQAvD_BwE

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Author Brook Allen has a passion for ancient history—especially 1st century BC Rome. Her Antonius Trilogy is a detailed account of the life of Marcus Antonius—Marc Antony, which she worked on for fifteen years. The first installment, Antonius: Son of Rome was published in March 2019. It follows Antony as a young man, from the age of eleven, when his father died in disgrace, until he’s twenty-seven and meets Cleopatra for the first time. Brook’s second book is Antonius: Second in Command, dealing with Antony’s tumultuous rise to power at Caesar’s side and culminating with the civil war against Brutus and Cassius. Antonius: Soldier of Fate is the last book in the trilogy, spotlighting the romance between Antonius and Cleopatra and the historic war with Octavian Caesar.

Learn more about Brook Allen at www.brookallenauthor.com.