We stopped at Hoss's Creekside Corner for a coffee. There's Hoss's Nail Salon (much as I needed it, I didn't), Hoss's Store, Hoss's Crazy Golf, Hoss's Gallery, Hoss's Pizzeria, and Hoss's Bait Shop. One has to hope the last two don't share stock.
But one valiant independent store battles against this corporate onslaught. It's outnumbered, surrounded, and frankly its chances don't look good. But it's determined to hang on in there, till Hell freezes over and can be served in your choice of cone or cup.
We got off to an early start this morning, hoping to avoid the mid-afternoon thunderstorms that we've relished the last few days.
And successfully - it's pouring down outside as I sit snug and dry inside, so no new comb needed.
We got clocked by the speed camera coming into town - we've done more than 40mph at times, but this is pretty much our average.
It sounds like some kind of martial arts relaxation technique, but it was our port of entry into New York State.
We crossed over on a ferry, which has run since about 1759 and had an informative leaflet describing the different vessels: The Ethan Allen was a distinctly unlovely, more or less home made affair, with as many problems as the US Congress, but it worked hard for 35 years in succession, which is probably more than can be said for the US Congress.
Today was our first rest day, and a good thing too, since it was horribly hot. We lazed a bit, and 
went to the fort to cheer when the soldiers raised the Union Jack (or Union Flag, I can never remember, but it wasn't up for long, so it probably doesn't matter). That rather took it out of us, so then we lazed some more - Ewa in the lovely garden, and John and I were blogging geek boys in the library.
Thunder storms aplenty, and power cuts to go with them, including one just now while Ewa was kindly doing laundry. So possibly our clothes will be trapped in the washing machine while we cycle butt-naked into the Adirondack mountains.
Not long after this rather smug photo was taken, my chain snapped. 
I got my hands more thoroughly marinaded in oil than ever before fixing it, and I've been looking for a manicurist ever since.
Fortunately there was a bike shop nearby, who even gave me a snazzy loaner to ride to the diner for lunch.
Most of the houses in New England are plain white affairs.
But there are, erm, striking exceptions.
Crossing the Kancamagus Pass, known amongst hardcore cyclists (and now us) as "doing the Kanc", is a right of passage. It's 2,855 feet above sea level, most of which feet we've already climbed at least once. Kudos to Ewa for making it.
We saw some hardcore cyclists, actually. Once as they passed us on the way up, once as they went back down on the other side of the road, and once again as they climbed back up for the second time. Swine.
When you're cycling, you just cram down the food. Partly because you need it as fuel and partly, well, because you know you want to.
So it's a pleasant surprise when you come across really good food, as in the Oxford House Inn, in Fryburg, or in our recent lucky streak of groovy health food stores.
