Author Archives: Alan Ilagan

We slept in as a little more snow swirled outside, cozily ensconced in our favorite room at the Scotch Hill Inn. Our plan on this winter day was a quick outlet jaunt to Kittery with an opening lunch at Bob’s Clam Hut – a happy and hungry echo of a summer day, the kind of hunger only a fried clam platter can appease.

A stop at The Yarn Sellar inspired a planned return to crocheting, and I had an enjoyable conversation with one of the owners as she spun the yarn from a skein into a ‘cake’ using a wondrous wooden frame contraption that looked straight out of some steampunk fantasy. Crocheting or knitting would be a return to something real, something physical, something not in any way tethered to or corrupted by technological muck. Yarn felt like a grounding object, so I picked up three colors and told them I was going to try my hand at a few granny squares.

Gram often comes to mind when we are in Ogunquit, even when we don’t see a dachshund – and she’s the one who taught me how to crochet when I was about ten or eleven years old. We returned to town and I had my last cup of French hot chocolate for this trip – a tradition I already found myself missing. It was Mom’s birthday, and I’d made reservations at the York Harbor Inn as that felt like the sort of cozy, traditional dinner scene she’d appreciate on this winter night.

The snow was coming down again as we carefully wound our way to York, and the fireplace-backed lobby was the ideal setting to stave off a frigid evening. We dined looking out over the wintry street – a quaint, idyllic scene that Andy remarked looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Sometimes life gifts you a perfect moment and setting.

One more jewel of a moment awaited us, as upon our return to the Inn Anthony opened the door and invited us onto the porch for hot chocolate. The snow was still falling, now at a pretty healthy clip (several inches would fall during the night) the delicate silence punctuated only by the occasional snow plow (Ogunquit’s fanciest and finest).

This was the dream-scene and setting that we’d longed to experience when Anthony first told us of such magic years ago. There was beauty and stillness and calm as the snow continued to swirl outside and we approached the eleven o’clock hour. Anthony’s mug of hot chocolate warmed my hand, and a blanket thoughtfully left on the back of my rocking chair wound around my shoulders as we rocked the snowy night away. It made for a memorable end to Mom’s first birthday in Maine – and a sublime realization of a winter dream we’d held for many years.

Some dreams, when finally and fully realized, don’t always live up to the dreamer’s vision and hope – this one surpassed it. Winter, peace and tranquility don’t often go hand-in-hand, but for this one magical weekend in Maine, Anthony and the Scotch Hill Inn made it all happen.

And now we look forward to our return to Ogunquit in May… just four months away.

The first bit of snow fell during our first night. The dream scenario that Mom, Andy and myself had wished to see for decades had finally come to gorgeous fruition – the town was transformed into a vision of quaint, charming, winter-wonderland magic. For those of us who have only known Ogunquit to be adorned with spring flowers, summer foliage, and autumn gourds, the winter snow scene was a spectacle of elegant majesty, surpassing anything we could have envisioned.

Bundled up with coats and scarves, hats and gloves, we made the walk to the Marginal Way, unsure how far we’d get before the weather and wind turned us back. Even in the winter hour, there was the living smell of ocean – favored scent of youth and vacations – the scent that pricked at the heart and the appetite – the secret of life crashing down in the regular, rhythmic intervals of waves.

Walking the Marginal Way, and the path that would always mean so much to us, there was calm and healing, even in the cold, and we found ourselves unbothered by the bit of wind that occasionally swirled. Entranced by the sea – this might be how sailors were lured to tempting dangers – we traversed the entire Marginal Way, having no issue with the slippery slopes and occasional winter breeze.

In fact, this was one of the calmer and quieter walks along the Marginal Way – usually the wind and the surf and the crowds are all battling to be heard over each other. On this late morning, all was mostly still and silent – a contemplative glimpse of the Beautiful Place By the Sea, and I was grateful.

Seeing our favorite spots bedecked by snow and ice was as magnificent as expected – winter lending its own sort of magic to the environs we’ve only ever experienced in warmer months.

Most of Perkins Cove was closed on this particular weekend, but it didn’t matter – we weren’t there for shopping or dining – we were there for the winter, and it did not disappoint. We walked back into town as snow started to fall again – big, fluffy, beautiful flakes – the stuff of charmed tales that ended with a cup of hot chocolate.

That evening, we had dinner at Walker’s and called an early night – it was so cozy and comfortable at the Scotch Hill Inn that we simply enjoyed the time together. Meanwhile, the snow continued to fall…

Ever since our very first vacation to Ogunquit as a couple twenty five-plus years ago, Andy and I have wanted to visit when snow was on the rocks and trees, and the cozy holiday scenes of December still echoed and lit the winter nights. Mom has also wanted experience an Ogunquit snowfall, in the same way she enjoyed a Boston snowstorm – safe and at a cozy vantage point.

Thanks to a gracious invitation from our innkeeper Anthony of the Scotch Hill Inn, who was generous enough to have us over for Mom’s birthday weekend, we finally managed to make that winter dream a reality, and round out every season in this Beautiful Place by the Sea. As hoped for, winter in Ogunquit holds charms no other time of the year could afford.

Back when we started staying at the Scotch Hill Inn, Anthony would tease us with tantalizing tales regaling evenings on the expansive front porch of his Inn watching as a snowstorm would barrel down the street and drop its wintry carriage, all the while warmed by blankets and a little heater, sipping on hot chocolate with or without some extra liquid heat, and it sounded like the coziest scene.

Finally, we took him up on his offer, and arrived with Mom for a long weekend. The weather forecast was all over the place, and we’d learned long ago that the most accurate weather forecast in Ogunquit was found stepping outside to see what was actually happening at that moment; everything else was guess-work, and mostly mistaken at that. On this weekend, the snow would deliver its wished-for effect, but not in such overwhelming quantities so as to derail travel or the occasional walk.

We’d never driven in Maine in the winter, and arriving to a summer town in the throes of the off-season was a welcome change from our May and October visits, when Route 1 was routinely a snarl of strangled traffic, snaking its way slowly along – so slowly that foot-traffic often passed the pace of cars. No such scene greeted us now. All was clear and quiet, and as we arrived to a gorgeous house still blessedly decked out for the holidays, we looked to extend the bonhomie of the season with a delicious dinner by Anthony himself – no small gift considering his extensive chef experience. (The breakfasts of the Scotch Hill Inn are rightfully and well-deservedly renowned.) We gathered for pre-dinner drinks on the porch and met some of Anthony’s Friday night gang – neighbors and friends who formed this happy little winter family. So good was the company and conversation that we didn’t make it to bed until midnight – and then we slept the peaceful sleep with which a night in Ogunquit contentedly concludes.