Malabar Farm Hostel offers a natural getaway staycation

LUCAS — Back in January, I made my way out in the cold and ice to the Malabar Farm Hostel for a house concert, where a lineup of local talent assembled to perform in the cozy living room.

It was a night of great music in a warm and hospitable setting and I knew at some point I’d be back.

My chance came last weekend, when I decided to get the full experience and book myself in for a Friday and Saturday night stay. I had no particular event or activity in mind, no agenda – I figured I’d just turn up and see how it went.

I arrived at about 8 p.m. on Friday evening with a change of clothes, a few good books and some simple provisions I’d picked up from the store on the way there. Mark Sebastian Jordan, the genial live-in host of the Malabar Farm Hostel for the past seven seasons, was waiting on the front porch to check me in and show me my room.

Here’s the basic set-up. There are private rooms as well as a shared dorm (I was booked into a private room). Clean sheets are laid out and you make your own bed. Women and men share separate bathroom facilities, and meals are self-catered in the pleasant farmhouse kitchen.

After quickly settling in, I joined Mark on the front porch. It was an agreeable night, not too humid, and Mark made for fascinating company. He’s a natural storyteller with a vast knowledge of local history concerning the Bromfields and Malabar Farm, and much else besides.

I asked if I could smoke one of my cigars, and he joined me by going inside to fetch his pipe. As we quietly puffed away, a great number of animal visitors wandered up to join us.

A gaggle of geese pecked at the cracked-corn and sunflower seeds sprinkled at the foot of the huge maple tree. Later some racoons gathered for the same reason, and a couple of playful kittens danced around them.

The racoons grunted and snuffled like tiny hogs, and seemed quite comfortable with our presence, with up to 10 of them turning up at one time. A sudden noise would send them skittering up the tree with concern on their cartoon-like faces, before cautiously making their way back down again.

“My friends think I’m cracking up because I’ve named the geese,” Mark told me. “But why wouldn’t I name them? I’ve gotten to know them all by personality.”

I asked him if he’d named the racoons.

“Well, no. That would be crazy.”

Some other guests arrived, including Sharon, originally from Cleveland, who frequently travels and tries to stay at the hostel once a month to recharge. She stays not in a room but in a tent that she pitches up at the rear.

“I love this porch,” she told me, as she took a seat and joined us. “On one summer solstice, Mark and I sat here all day – from 8:30 in the morning to 10:30 at night – and watched the sun move across the sky.”

By now the sun had gone down and the moonlight was starting to glisten on the pond across the way. I asked Mark for details on some of the local walking opportunities I might take advantage of, having had no idea that I was smack in the middle of miles of wonderful state park trails.

We gathered some maps and I started to plot a likely route for the following day.

“Start off at Mt. Jeez,” advised Mark, “that’ll give you a good overview.”

The next day, after a good breakfast of ham, toast, coffee and fruit, I packed a bag and hit the road on foot. I figured I’d start off at the Visitor Center and maybe add to my supplies, but discovered the little gift shop doesn’t open until 11:30.

Still, I made use of the restrooms and water fountain. As I was doing so I heard an odd whistle, repeated several times and apparently directed at me, although I could see no-one else present.

“Hello?” I said, tentatively.

“Hello? Hello?” came the invisible response.

“Who is that?” I muttered, irritably.

“Hello? Hello?” the voice repeated.

It was then that I noticed the parrot. I decided not to dignify him with a further response and walked out without another word, heading off to Mt. Jeez.

In all, I walked for a good five hours – although, granted, at quite a meandering pace. It was certainly a one-day record for me, and covered all sorts of varied terrain and landscape: shaded woods, rolling hillsides, natural cave formations and diverse pockets of water.

I covered most of the foot trails on my little map and a fair amount of the bridle trails, too. Here’s the thing I discovered about bridle trails: what’s easy for a horse is not always easy for a person.

Trotting through a flowing stream, for example, which in my footwear was not ideal. I managed instead a daring run across a few slippery rocks, grabbing onto branches, which was quite thrilling but sadly witnessed only by the creatures of the forest.

At the end of my day’s exertion I took myself to the Malabar Farm Restaurant for a good burger and some cold beers. I’d been there once before, years ago, and had been impressed by their selection of brews – only to find that they couldn’t serve them to me on Sunday. Luckily my visit this time was on a Saturday, and the horror of that earlier afternoon has now been erased.

I arrived back at the hostel just after 5 p.m. I slept for a couple of hours then awoke with a crushing desire for potato chips, which I tried to counter with another attempt at finishing to read Don Quixote, a project I’ve been working on for some years.

I took my copy downstairs and found my place once again on the front porch. Not much reading got done, however, as the porch life was once again such an interesting distraction.

That evening outside the hostel Mark conducted his part of a Malabar Farm ‘Night Haunt,’ entertaining a tour group with his creepy tales of ghostly goings-on. To my great amusement, a number of the racoons stood up on their hind legs to watch him talk.

Later, Sharon returned with her nephew, and I was further entertained as he (harmlessly) drove his car into a ditch. Robin, from Virginia – another regular guest – turned up with his two children and a box of pizza, and told me about his many travels in Europe.

“England seemed a cheat, really,” he told me. “They speak the same language.”

Finally, a bunch of cheerful young twentysomethings from Boston arrived. They were sharing the dorm room, and to my eyes they seemed like the typical hostel guests. However, Mark assured me that they get all sorts: students, travelers, vacationers – and locals (like me) who just want a pleasant break.