There is a special place in hell reserved for a specific class of exploitative journalism. It's the "Places only the locals know" or "hidden gems of the North Coast" genre.


Temporarily homeless, the Jones' boat was the best I could do. Spinney had promised to shift me to something more suitable ASAP. But for now, I was "boat sitting" for the Jones family, and they had allocated the dusty forward berth for the sitter.


I frequented a Charles Street Coffehouse in the sixties that opened around noon with a limited menu of well-prepared French cuisine. I could afford to order coffee there; lunch was beyond my means.