Serendib

'Serendib' is the old Arabic, Persian and Urdu name for the island that later became Ceylon and today is known as Sri Lanka. It is also the origin of the English word 'serendipity', coined in 1754 by Horace Walpole and, so I am told,  comes from the legend of 'The Three Princes of Serendib', in which our happy-go-lucky heroes were making discoveries of things they had not searched for.

And so it was, after making a side trip from our base in Ellsworth over glorious rolling hills to the tiny village of Surry and back, that we happened upon a sort of hole in the wall distinguished by the Sri Lankan flag hanging in front and the name 'Serendib'.  Inside we discovered a delightful dish by the name of Lamprais, which, as the menu describes it, is a "Dutch Burgher influenced dish comprising of a fragrant suduru samba'  rice, mixed meat curry, brinjal pahi, seeni sambol, blachan, and frikkadels wrapped in a banana leaf and baked."  Not having the faintest idea of what any of those things look or taste like, we decided to take a chance.  Granted that almost everything tastes great on a bicyle trip, we were not prepared for this little slice of culinary heaven prepared by owner and chef Sanjeera Saresaskera, who will also regale you with tea, stories and charm.  If you are ever in Ellsworth, perhaps on the quest to get to Bar Harbor, don't pass it by!!!! Pure serendipity.

Room With A View

For anyone in a rush to reach Bar Harbor, our advice is don't.  Tarry awhile.  Camp a day or two at Lemoine State Park, where you can claim a campsite like this one if you get there early in the day. We spent a wonderful three nights there dallying in the precious sunshine and enjoying the campfire.  Tip: make sure you stock up on supplies before you leave Ellsworth.  There is a general store 5 miles down the road from the park but the pickings are limited, mustly canned goods and hot dogs. Somehow it doesn't matter.

Ever-returning spring

All along the road, especially north and east of Sabago, we are treated to the incomparable smell and sight of lilacs in full bloom.  The faintest whiff of lilacs never fails to bring to mind Walt Whitman's soulful commemoration on the death of his beloved President, Abraham Lincoln. There is no evidence that I know of that Whitman ever actually met Lincoln, but when did that ever matter when the passion is for an ideal and  for  promise  only partially fulfilled?  It is a good thing that poetry, like the smell  of lilacs and the sight of  the drooping great star, outlives us all. And why, on remembering lilacs and reading Whitman, do I feel a sense of mourning or maybe simply resignation as we head into the election season?

The full poem has 16 parts, here are two of them for whatever road you are taking.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd
And the great star early droop'd in the  western sky in the night,
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring.
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

In  the dooryard fronting an old farm-house in the white-washed palings,
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle--and from this bush in the dooryard,
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig with its flower I break.