2/16 – NY to Belfast, PA: 20-22 May 2024

I left Art and Eve at the crack of midday, with the prospect of 270km ahead to get to my destination at a campground in Montgomery, a small town in Pennsylvania. The ride along Route 44 was brilliant; the day was sunny and warm, the road was smooth, empty and snaked through mixed forest, and the bike was running like a top – ha, little did I know! I only had one stop, for coffee and arrived at Riverside Campground on the bank of the Susquehanna River.

This was my first real camp and I was interested to see how my 30-odd year-old tent would perform alongside my new sleeping mat and stuff. It did well; went up easily and had no visible holes. It was smaller than I remembered, but then the last time I clearly remembered using it, Roisin was but a tiny wee thing, yet to grace the world. I’m sure I used it in the interim, just can’t remember exactly when.

The air mattress was inflated quickly using my new little pump/light gadget – once I got the knack – and in no time at all I was ready for dinner.

The campsite boasted a bar and restaurant, and I made use of this to have a steak salad. I thought his was a bit of an oxymoron, but it was tasty, nonetheless.

The night passed without incident, although I did have to deflate the mattress a bit as I kept sliding off. Not overly impressed with last night’s fare, I decided I’d try out somewhere in town. On my way from the shower, I met one of my neighbours, walking his dog; after a brief exchange, he invited me for coffee.

He and his wife (and dog) lived at the campsite for 3-4 months of the year; the rest of the time they lived like normal people in their house about a one-hour drive away. They came to the same site each year, and this time round had extended the concrete slab provided by the management and planted some perennials around their mobile home. It really was like a home from home, except it didn’t have a washing machine. His wife whom I only spoke to briefly didn’t allow this to phase her. The reason I dodn’t get to speak to her was because she was heading home to collect the mail, water the plants and do the washing. They were very pally with lady in the caravan next door, so it seemed like a really little village.

I struggled to find the Station House, the chosen diner. When I did, it was small and unprepossessing. Inside it was bustling with local custom. Everybody clearly knew everybody else and their business; the banter was very amusing to listen to. Not surprisingly, being a Tuesday morning, most of the people were older folk – the lady sitting at the table next to mine, Ginny, was 91, and sounded just like my Mother, with an American accent .

The thing that struck me most though, was that these people seemed to genuinely care about each other, and this including the serving staff. I surmised this was an example of a small town at its best.

They were also quite friendly. I was pressed to have a sticky bun that was fresh from the oven. When I asked what exactly this was, the baking tray was carried out from the kitchen and I was shown a cake, which contained, amongst other things I cannot remember, cinnamon and was covered in what looked like very sweet, sticky syrupy stuff. I declined, but maybe I should have been more adventurous. Shortly afterwards one lady asked for some to take out, only to be informed that it was all finished. There had been a group of ladies in for coffee and apparently, they had cleaned the place out of sticky buns.

I was, for some reason, feeling a bit stressed and had decided to chill for a bit and spend two days at the campsite, so I went back for dinner that evening – it wasn’t as good as breakfast – and for breakfast again, before heading off, again in bright sunshine towards Belfast, No 5.

Belfast, Plainfield Township, Northampton County

The ride again was fun but uneventful. Well not quite true. After one stop to check up on my, still, misbehaving GPS, the bike wouldn’t start on the button. It started instantly with the kickstart though. Not too much later, after a short ride up a particularly twisty road, I found myself at a crossroads that, according to my map was nearly, Belfast.

I rode up the road a bit and passed the point that was supposed to be Belfast. After another mile or so, I reckoned there was no more Belfast, so I turned around in a carpark next to a pizza takeaway. I thought I might get some info here, but the proprietor turned out to be an old Italian man whose English was, … well, confusing. Anyway, he didn’t know anything about any Belfast.

I decided to turn to the junction where there was a petrol station and saw, almost immediately opposite the pizza place a sign saying, “Village of Belfast”. So much for local knowledge.

At the station I didn’t have much more luck with the guy at the till. An old – older than me anyway – lady came in with her grandson (I assumed) and I thought she might help. Pleasant as she was, she wasn’t a local and couldn’t help me. She did tell me about one claim to fame of the area – Belfast, she also told me, was a district rather than a village/town.

According to Wikipedia, however, Belfast is

Located in one of the first settled areas in the township, the village is believed to have been named for the city of Belfast in Northern Ireland. Its settlers, who were predominantly German and Welsh, arrived in the area in the late 18th century. The village was originally known as Belleville or Bellville because of its scenic view. The name Belfast came into use sometime after the Civil War.

Wright, James; Wright, Wright (1988). Place Names of Northampton County, Pennsylvania. Nazareth, Pennsylvania: J&L Wright. pp. 12–13

The claim to fame relates to Henry’s Gun Factory, started as a foundry in or around 1800, which subsequently became a firearms business.  According to one source, the Pennsylvania rifle, the first genuine invention in the Colonies, was invented here. It saw wide service during the American War of Independence (aka The Revolutionary War) and was subsequently made famous by the likes of Daniel Boone, when, thanks to a popular song, it was known as the Kentucky rifle.  

As I was having my ice cream by the filling station – what else do you do when you cannot find your El Dorado – I spotted another sign, a little more elaborate than the previous one. I still didn’t really find a Belfast village or town or any further information on the origins of the name.

Somewhat disappointed, I left heading for Catasausqua where I was staying with Joe. I almost made it to his house; about a mile short I stalled the engine at a t-junction, and it refused to start again. Sitting on the verge, offloading my bags, several people shouted from their car, asking if I was OK. One girl shouted, “Do you need help? I know nothing about motorbikes, but my father does!” That sentiment rings familiar.

I managed to contact Joe, who came with his truck; we loaded my kit into this, jumpered the battery and the bike was good enough to get me the rest of the way. In the garage I measured the voltage at 7,5V – not good. Having put the battery on charge, I put up my tent in the garden and we went off for some food in the local bar, where they served a reasonable pint of Guinness.

Next morning, I had to decide what to do. We visited Walmart for some oil, and possibly a battery. Good luck on the first, but none on the second. While changing the oil a bit later, I was urgently summoned by Joe’s wife Diana, “He’s fallen in the pool,” she cried. The pool was large and a deep; I had immediate visions of Joe lying at the bottom, unconscious, bleeding from the head and with perhaps a twisted limb or two. Happily this was not the case.

 Joe had painted his pool the day before and covered it with a large tarpaulin to keep rain off while the paint cured. Unfortunately, the rain from the night before – the same rain that had fairly quickly come through my aged tent – and the mega thunderstorm we had shortly before had combined to blow off the tarp and pull down all the weights into the pool. While trying to retrieve these and empty the pool of rainwater, Joe had slipped on the ice-like painted surface. He landed on his back and cracked his head solidly on the floor. Nothing severe, but enough to leave him pale and severely shaken. Thanks to the slippy surface, he couldn’t get out, so I had to pull him up using a brush extension pole.

Thankfully he wasn’t badly hurt, and I prescribed some aspirin and an hour or two of rest. This seemed to work and before I had finished, he was back on his feet and pottering about again. All the same before I left, I gave Diana some advice on what to watch for, in case of any delayed effects of the bang to his head.

I had earlier ordered a new battery, convinced this was the problem as my charging system had checked out. Due to delivery times, I also decided to risk heading on to my next stopover, to where I had had the battery sent. The old was fully charged again and I should be able to do the 200 Km to Hampstead before dark, I reckoned. Joe wasn’t so sure, but the alternative was to sit for two days doing nothing.

So I left him recovering and Diana playing with their grandson and headed off, hoping to complete the trip before, or at least avoiding, the thunderstorms that were forecast.