My last column detailed an ill-advised and unsuccessful mission to drive to Saquish with two large dogs in a small, two-wheel drive convertible. Saquish is a small, orphaned piece of Plymouth at the southern end of Duxbury Beach, accessible overland only by a rudimentary road. Though it can take as long to drive to Saquish as it does to Logan Airport (depending on traffic), Saquish is only three miles from downtown Plymouth as the crow flies.
But it got me to thinking. Plymouth is, in square miles, the largest town east of the Mississippi. Saquish may be the toughest part to access, but what is the most far-flung section of Plymouth, the point furthest from downtown and the town’s northern border?
With the aid of the most sophisticated technology I own, apart from my laptop and cellphone, I decided to find out. Using a ruler, a map of Plymouth, and my left index finger I identified a spot about 12 miles from downtown (as the crow flies), a few miles northwest of the Bourne Bridge between routes 25 and 6 and the town’s most southwesterly corner. Fortunately for me, there are paved roads there – a warren of streets just off Head of the Bay Road which, for a short distance, is the boundary between Plymouth and Bourne. But this neighborhood, unconnected and a good distance from any other residential Plymouth neighborhood, is a stone’s throw from East Wareham and Buzzards Bay. At one point, it’s a short walk to the waters of Buttermilk Bay, which sits within the boundaries of Bourne and Wareham.
I had never heard of Buttermilk Bay before, but it sounded nice enough, like a place that might have healing properties or serve exceptional pancakes. It rolls off the tongue easily, too. On a map, this little piece of Plymouth near the bay looked so isolated from any other part of town that I wondered if the residents even thought of themselves as living in Plymouth.
Several years ago, I drove across the United States and back with the late, great beloved Albie, a rescued yellow lab-golden retriever mix from Louisiana, more or less following the route John Steinbeck and his poodle Charley took when Steinbeck was writing the classic “Travels with Charley.” I discovered, as Steinbeck had, that a dog is a passport to countless conversations with strangers. So, on a late February day with a faint hint of spring in the air, I Ioaded my two rescues, Salina and Tot, into my car and we headed down to Buttermilk Bay.
We decided to start at Plymouth Rock (actually, I decided; the dogs, as usual, concurred). It’s 20 miles and a 30-minute drive from there to Buttermilk Bay, and that includes a considerable stretch on Route 3 traveling between 60 and 70 mph. A few pretty, winding miles on Bourndale Road delivered us to Head of the Bay Road and into Buttermilk Bay. There aren’t many places this side of the Mississippi, if any, where you can drive half an hour mostly on highway and be in the same town half an hour later.
To paraphrase Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz,” when you get to Buttermilk Bay it’s easy think, “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Plymouth anymore.” Nowhere in the vicinity of Buttermilk Bay is there a “Welcome to Plymouth” sign to be found, and nothing that would suggest to a stranger in these parts that they are indeed in “America’s Hometown.”
The neighborhood is an enclave of modest homes and cedar shingled cottages, some quite tiny, a fair number with boats, trailers, and assorted detritus in the driveways and yards.
Within a few minutes we ran into Rob and Veronique Mayhew, a younger couple – by which I mean younger than me – walking a small white dog. Rob hails from Framingham originally; Veronique is from Germany. They moved to Buttermilk Bay three years ago – newcomers, since most residents, they told me, have been there for decades. My first question was whether they thought of themselves as living in Plymouth. Without hesitation and in unison both said “no” and smiled.
“We pay Plymouth taxes,” said Rob, “but we think of ourselves as living in Buzzards Bay.”
“We’re the island of misfit toys,” he added. “We’re the last part of Plymouth anyone thinks about, kind of forgotten.” The Mayhews were quick to point out, however, that the town recently paved a street in the neighborhood. Despite its isolation, they like Buttermilk Bay for its access to the water and the Cape. Plus, said Rob, “it’s pin drop quiet.”
A few minutes later I spied an older woman – by which I mean about my age – walking her dog. I rolled down the car window and managed to talk to her above the din of dogs barking at each other for no obvious purpose, which is why I didn’t get her name. But I did manage to learn she’s lived in Buttermilk Bay for 47 years and has grandchildren in the Plymouth public schools which is why, unlike the Mayhews, she does think of herself as living in Plymouth. In what is probably a common refrain for people who live in the more isolated parts of most towns or states, she said, “We don’t get much from Plymouth.” When I asked what she meant, she told me her husband recently fell down some stairs it took the ambulance 45 minutes to reach them.
To prove to myself that we really were in Plymouth, I scouted for solid photographic proof but came up empty. Then, just as we were leaving the neighborhood to have a look at the liquid version of Buttermilk Bay, we saw a Plymouth police cruiser and an officer responding to a call at a small house. So, I did secure proof that we were indeed still in town.
The bay itself comprises two connected bodies of water, Little Buttermilk Bay and Buttermilk Bay, with views of the Bourne Bridge in the distance. Just west of the Buttermilk Bay neighborhood is the Lyman Reserve, a 210-acre Trustees of Reservations property that sits partly in Plymouth, Bourne, and Wareham. It is home to some of the last remaining sea-run brook trout in the Eastern United States. Who knew?
On the return to the Pinehills where we live, we took a different route: up Plymouth Lane to Bourne Road and Long Pond Road. That reinforced just how big Plymouth really is; there are about a dozen countries in the world that are smaller. Consider this: if you were to drive from Buttermilk Bay to Saquish it would take you about an hour and a half, the same amount of time it would take to drive from Hartford to Boston and almost as much fun, but you’d still be in Plymouth. You can get there from here. It just takes time.
Peter Zheutlin – a freelance journalist who has written frequently for The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, and many other publications – brings the perspective of a Plymouth newcomer to the Independent. He is the author or co-author of nine books, including the New York Times bestseller “Rescue Road: One Man, Thirty Thousand Dogs, and a Million Miles on the Last Hope Highway.” Zheutlin can be reached at pzheutlin@gmail.com.