American dream

We cycle into the village for croissants every morning" it says on the smuggest of postcards. Well, I can go one better. On my family holiday we canoed for croissants. We used the same transport to nip into town for ice creams, my 79-year-old mother paddling at the bow, my sister at the stern and my daughter and niece sat in between them on the base of the boat, clutching the sides. My brother and I followed in a two-man kayak.

"Would you like that with hot fudge sauce, whipped cream, nuts and a cherry on the top?" the rather dishy girl in the ice cream parlour said automatically every time we ordered. After asking the question to three of us, each time eliciting a smirking response, she cottoned on and abbreviated her spiel: "Would you like that with... everything?" This was my first time in the US, despite being 46 years old and I was easily delighted.

The boats came free with a lakeside cottage and jetty in Wolfeboro on Lake Winnipesauke in New Hampshire. We'd rented it for a few days during a family trip to visit my brother in Massachusetts.

When we weren't canoeing, we were hurling ourselves into the water from the jetty or swimming out to the ski jump in the middle of the lake. Being 13 again came easy to my brother and I. To our nephews, we were more like brothers than uncles. It may seem like a long way to go essentially to swim and paddle, but we'd never had so much good, old fashioned, non-health and safety-compliant, family fun. Why can't we have lakes like this in Britain?

In the evenings, the youngest member of our party (Aidan, two) threw stones into the lake, squatting to pick them up carefully one by one, while his grandmother hovered. My daughter and her cousin sat alone on the jetty lost in conversation – and lost to the rest of us, to be honest. Later we had barbecues on the raised deck at the back of the house that led down a grassy slope to the shore. A Welsh flag flew in the corner, a reflection of the owners' nationality and, on one day at least, the Welsh weather which reminded us of family holidays with Mum and Dad in the seventies.

For the exhibitionists among us there was an outdoor shower on the opposite side of the deck (with changing cubicle-style door, I should add). There's something inexplicably invigorating about showering outdoors especially after spending a day in the open.

Sleeping arrangements were interesting. We had the right number of beds but not in the ideal configurations. Grannie had her private quarters throughout, of course, but the rest of us bedhopped our way around the cottage until we found somewhere – and someone – that we could best tolerate. The compactness of the accommodation, slopping around on old armchairs covered with throws and general making-do were all in keeping with the relaxed and easy feel of the break. This isn't a holiday choice for those with sensitivities, though.

Named after the 18th century English general James Wolfe, Wolfeboro bills itself as "America's first summer resort". It's lakeside setting and the mooring posts on wooden jetties dotted around the Lake Winnipesauke shore gives the town the same sort of calming air as Windermere in the Lake District. In contrast, walkers are a rarity in Wolfeboro. Everyone travels by car. Vehicles forever ghost along the high street, gently slowing at pedestrian crossings and junctions then easing away, their automatic gearboxes making barely a sound. Number plates specify the state where the vehicle is registered together with its slogan. "Live free or die" say the plates for New Hampshire – which sounds a bit naff to me but I daresay has more meaning to the locals.

We did manage to stir ourselves sufficiently to leave the lakeside on two occasions. One day we visited the Castle in the Clouds, a eyrie-like mansion built by a shoe industrialist a century ago with fantastic views of – yes, you've guessed it – the lake. It actually covers 69 square miles so it's pretty hard to get away from completely. The leaded windows, polished wooden floors, artefacts, and shiny white tiles and porcelain in the bathrooms reminded me of National Trust properties in the UK. There was an even a secret room where the owner of the house could escape from his wife for some peace and quiet.

Our other day trip was to the preserved Canterbury Shaker village. Here again there were connections with home. Shakers were an extreme religious sect which developed from the Quaker movement founded in Manchester. They were named after the uncontrollable movements they made when in the throes of religious ecstacy. The community comes across as an unlikely combination of nunnery and monastery. At its peak in the 1850s 300 people lived in 100 buildings in Canterbury. The last resident Shaker died in 1992 and today 29 of the white clapboard buildings remain. We had an introduction to the site in the main dwelling house then began our tour by heading to the upper floors of the building, "brothers" via the right-hand staircase and "sisters" via the left, in keeping with Quaker tradition. Celibacy was central to their credo. Although men and women danced together as part of worship they were forbidden from ever touching, the community being sustained through adoption rather than procreation. The men found practising restraint harder than the women, which was a factor in the community's gradual dissipation in the mid-20th century. We also visited the meeting house, laundry, infirmary, school and dining room.

On our last night we went to a minor league baseball game in the rough and ready cotton town of Lowell. My brother's satnav conked out just as we reached the town centre, where a folk festival further slowed our progress. "Excuse me. Could you tell me the way to the ball park, please?" my sister asked several baleful locals in her conspicuously English accent.

As we raced in Jumping Jack Flash, the Frisbee dog, was leaping around the pitch to the tune of "Who let the dogs out?". Later entertainment between innings included girls throwing rubber chickens into the crowd while Tyson Chicken led a dance to the Birdie Song. Despite my brother's best efforts to explain the sport, seeing the action for myself made it no clearer. In fact, I didn't really understand any part of the evening, but it was the perfect end to my first taste of America and a family holiday in the finest of traditions.

YP MAG 24/4/10