There were times during the drive across the Green Mountains to Brattleboro from the New York state line when I wasn't sure if our 4-cylinder Ford Fusion would make it up another steep grade.
My father famously avoided New England because he viewed the region as having too many people and not enough mountains, but in southern Vermont -- and in neighboring New Hampshire and Massachusetts, and even in western Connecticut -- there are hills aplenty.
What it comes down to is my dad's fervent embrace of the Old West's mythology, all that rugged individualism, snow-capped peaks and men being men. I respect him for this, though he missed out on some first-rate scenery in the eastern states.
On our first evening in Brattleboro (population 12,000), we took possession of our Airbnb apartment and made a brief orientation drive through downtown.
The city has parking meters and public parking lots (short and long term). Prices are reasonable; the long-term lot we entered costs 30 cents an hour, and is free after 6:00 p.m. and on weekends. Metered spaces seemed to constantly open, which of course is the whole point.
Every town in New England situated by a watercourse is a former mill town. Sawmills and gristmills were first in Brattleboro, which lies on the Connecticut River. Later came industries of all stripes, including an church organ factory.
I kept looking for these pills in the pharmacies. They sound useful in a small city with three breweries.
Over at the Potable Curmudgeon blog there is an overview of drinking and eating on our first night in Brattleboro.
A hand-pulled pint at McNeill's Brewery in Brattleboro, Vermont.
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