Ostria Restaurant Dinner in Votsalakia

Eating out in Samos Island, Greece is very cheap, you spend approximately 30+- euros for 2 pax (1 starter + 2 mains + 2 drinks). We normally have coffee somewhere else at a lounge or bar. Thus, we ate out every night (we still have a week to go to enjoy this island!) and I will be posting all our dinners (and lunches) at different restaurants.



Hopefully, those who stumble upon this blog whilst planning for their prospective Samos holiday will have an idea where to eat and what to expect. My way of giving back to travellers and holidaymakers out there.



First night dinner at Ostria Restaurant



We were quite intrigued with this restaurant because you cannot see the dining area except for a pathway leading to the beach. The pathway is partly covered with vines crawling on a trellis with grapes hanging from it. The restaurant is indeed located on the sea side which makes it very attractive and quite romantic as well.













The restaurant has no website but it is listed on Trip Advisor, go here: Ostria



Kambos area (Votsalakia beach) in Marathokampos municipality is small so it is easy to find this restaurant as it is located on the main town’s street.



Special menu of the day



We ordered their special menu of the day that includes a Greek salad. Dutchman, the Burger special with Tzatziki, and moi, the Grilled Dorade Fish (gilt-head bream or bream fish) special with lemon sauce. Of course, a quarter Samian white wine for me as well. Samos has its own wine culture and is quite famous locally.











Food here is quite good. Not a fan really of French fries but I loved my Grilled Dorade fish. 4.25 stars out of 5. The ambiance here at the restaurant is fresh and lovely. They also gave us free coffee to close the dinner. In Samos, all restaurants give you a surprise free thing after dinner. The surprise vary per restaurant!



Beach view



But what we really enjoyed most were the beautiful views, and oh, the sunset! So relaxing...









If in Votsalakia - Kambos area, don’t miss this restaurant, for lunch or dinner.



More food posts coming!

Even More Washington DC

Winter: The Beautiful and the Damned Difficult

So winter is not going anywhere; we are smack dab in the midst of it. Unlike some of my fellow velo bloggerists, I am fortunate enough not to suffer from SAD-like symptoms or "winter blues". I love winter! The Co-Habitant does as well, and whenever we have the chance we travel North to get even more of it.



In my own neighborhood, winter is quite beautiful as well. The snow, the bare trees, the crisp air, that somewhat surreal quality of light - I love it all.



What I don't love so much, is winter cycling. Sorry, I really am trying. But I just don't love it. The combination of how time consuming it is to get my clothing just right and how much more vigilant I have to be of the road conditions, adds stress and sucks much of the joy out of it for me. I still cycle, but unless the day is exceptionally warm, it has become an activity that I do mostly out of necessity. I look at Dottie's pictures and narratives on Let's Go Ride a Bike, and I am in awe on a number of levels. But not everyone's experience is the same, and I think that's okay. I have the right wool, the right boots, the right bike - but most of the time I still do not find it easy or enjoyable. If this disappoints some readers or says something terrible about my character, then so be it, but I prefer to be honest.



A couple of weeks ago, Un Vieux Velo humorously pointed out the "competitive winter cycling" phenomenon that was spreading through the blogs and flickr after the Christmas blizzard, and to some extent I do think it's true that we - perhaps unconsciously - sometimes try to outdo each other (Coming Up Next Week: "My blizzard was blizzardier that your blizzard! And I biked to work in a bikini!").



But jokes aside, I do feel some responsibility if I present an unrealistic image. Despite the snowy scenes I show, I do not mean to pretend that I am a stoic winter cyclist. Quite often I am miserable. If my destination is close enough I prefer to walk. And while I don't drive myself (don't like it), the Co-Habitant does, and for a number of reasons we use the car much more often now than during the warmer seasons. And that's perfectly fine with me.



If you love winter but don't love winter cycling, I think the only thing to do is just to let it go and not try to combine the two. You cycled only twice this week? Fine. No need to feel bad. Enjoy taking a walk around the neighborhood instead. Or forget the bike and go skiing, if that's your thing. Or sit by the fire place reading cycling magazines and watching the snow out of the window, if that's what makes you happy. It's all about improving the quality of your life, rather than proving a point. Happy Winter, and enjoy it in any way you like.

Coast Live Oak

Coast Live Oak, originally uploaded by ParsecTraveller.

Here's an example of the coast live oak, a rustic and beautiful California tree. This one, in the hills above Cal Poly, marked the beginning of a small grove of the trees. You can find them all over the California coast ranges.

Hill Training: My Epic Semi-Fail

Over the summer, one of our local bicycle clubs runs what's officially known as the (In)famous Wednesday Night Hill Ride: a loop "encompassing the gnarliest hills in the Boston Metro area." Of course the route does not belong to them and lots of local cyclists who want to cram some serious hills into a relatively short ride use it to train on their own time, particularly racers and randonneurs. Back in July Somervillain began riding this route with a small group as practice for the D2R2 and invited me to join. At the time the very notion was laughable. Me, on the Infamous Hill Route? The women's paceline rides were hilly enough for me, and those were described by the same bicycle club as "mostly flat" (ha!).



But definitions of "hills" are subjective. Fast forward a few months, and mine too had changed. Having gone on a handful of rides with some strong local cyclists, I even developed a new fondness for hills and no longer outright hated them. So when Somervillain suggested the two of us try the Hill Route before the snow arrived, it suddenly seemed like a great idea.What can I say? I am human, I got cocky.



Things started off innocently enough. My level of excitement was almost festive. Finally, I was going to do "real" hills, like the "real" roadies. I managed to get organised and dragged myself out of the house to meet Somervillain at an ungodly morning hour. The temperature was blessedly mild in the high 30s. The sun arose picturesquely over the local Dunkin Donuts parking lot as we convened in front of it on our trusty steeds: he on his '80s Trek racing bike, I on my Moser. It was going to be a great ride! A nice 30 mile ride with some hills in the middle. As we took off, I had a smile on my face (hint: it did not last).



Let me tell you about the Hill Training Route. The part with the proper hills is a 12 mile loop and the elevation profile looks like this. But no technical description or chart can communicate the subjective experience of this ride. The build-up was uninspiring, as we cycled along some ugly main roads with fast suburban traffic. After about 10 miles of that, we turned onto a narrow residential street and began the first climb up a small mountain. The climb began suddenly, and, being out of sight from the main road, there were no visual cues that allowed me to psychologically prepare for it. We turned the corner, and bang! - the very turn itself was already the beginning of a steep, twisty hill. The narrow road wound around the mountain instead of going directly up it, so there was no way to see what was around the bend. Would it get steeper or let up a bit? And how much longer to the top? Not knowing this drained my self-confidence and increased my anxiety tenfold. In addition, there were potholes the size of craters, and I had to zig-zag gingerly around them as I climbed.



My bicycle is geared fairly high (52x39t in the front and 12-26t in the rear), but still I did not expect to max out my gears quite so early on. Click-click-click! Click! And I was done. From that point onward there was no spinning, only pushing, and I still had most of the hill ahead of me. So I pushed on the pedals and heaved myself forward in jolts.



Promptly, my body began to rebel. A pain shot up straight to my right temple, so intense that it clouded my vision. I had a strong urge to throw up. My leg muscles felt as if someone was injecting them with acid. Somervillain was way up ahead of me and around the next bend. I felt intense shame at being so hopelessly terrible at this, even after all the rides I've done to build up to it. I did not see how I could possibly keep going at this rate, and only a stupid, primitive sense of pride kept me pushing. Thoughts such as "Do not stop the bike!" and "Like hell you're going to walk!" were the only things circulating in my otherwise empty mind.



At the top I felt nothing. No elation, no sense of accomplishment. Maybe some anger at my naivite ("You needed to do this, did you? Racers describe this ride as "infamous" and you decided this meant it was suitable for you?"), but otherwise nothing. I drank water and looked around blankly for Somervillain. Somehow I'd managed to lose him. Could he have taken a different side street to descend? I cycled around the maze of streets along the side of the mountain, climbing some smaller hills for no reason other than to keep warm. I was now shaking violently. Then it occurred to me that we both had phones. I phoned, he picked up immediately, we realised what had happened to separate us and agreed to meet back at the base of the hill. It was pretty apparent to me that I could not continue the ride, and he could hear it in my voice as well. I cycled down to meet him with my head hung low and my face a deep crimson.



I am not entirely sure how we ended up repeating the climb (yes, you read that correctly). I think it may have started out as a suggestion in jest. But long story short, we climbed the same hill again. Oddly it went easier the second time around, despite my utter sense of depletion. Maybe knowing what to expect made it easier. Once again I maxed out my gears and pushed myself up in jolts the whole way, but with a clearer sense of when to expect an end to the hellish ordeal. In the last stretch, my breaths were coming out in audible heaves: Hee! Haw! Not unlike the sound of a tortured donkey. And then again it was over. At the top we stopped in a parking lot behind a small, shabby water tower. I tried to eat a piece of an energy bar, but nearly threw it up. I did drink more water and kept that down. My hands were trembling. We agreed that we were done for now: descend carefully, then back to Somerville. Two difficult climbs was not so bad given my lack of experience.



Cycling home, we transitioned to the Minuteman Trail and enjoyed the glorious sunshine. We chatted casually about this and that and began to contemplate where would be the best place to stop for coffee.



And then I opened my mouth and said: "You know what? I am not tired anymore. This always happens, I begin to feel more energetic at the end of a ride."



And he said: "Oh yeah? Do you feel like going back and doing the last climb of the route then? We have time before I need to be at work."



And I said... Well, what could I say. I couldn't exactly back out of it at that point! So we rode to Arlington Heights for the last climb.



This climb was very different and I am so glad I did it. It was a big, open road that went straight up instead of winding, and I could see exactly how far it was to the top. It was a steep climb of about a mile and again I maxed out my gears fairly early on, but somehow it was just a more rewarding experience. This road had nice scenery and a more pleasant atmosphere; I just felt better riding there despite the same horrible pain in my legs and the same shortness of breath. Seeing that I had about a mile of this ahead of me, I somehow "settled into" the climb and relaxed. The entire time I was thinking "Oh my God, am I actually... enjoying this?" Somervillain was way ahead of me of course, so I had no illusions about my speed. When he stopped at the top and turned around to check how I was doing, I gave a thumbs up and smiled.



Upon reaching the top, I was delighted by the sight of a beautiful stone water tower surrounded by a small park. I had never been here before, and it's always nice to discover a new scenic spot. Suddenly, everything began to seem okay, even funny. It wasn't so bad. I really should have done the middle two climbs of the route instead of bailing so early on. To make me feel better, Somervillain pointed out that we'd really done more like 3 out of 4 climbs, since we did the first one twice. Plus we'd cycled 30 miles over all. Let's call it a modified route. After taking some pictures, we descended down a monstrous hill with a view of the Boston skyline, climbed another short but steep hill, and then cycled home for real with a quick coffee before parting ways.



On my way home I stopped by the Co-Habitant's office to say hello. He laughed and said I was incoherent, clearly still coming down from a post-cycling high ("and then... and then... there was a TOWER! And I almost gave up, but... tower!")



Sigh. I guess I should be grateful that even in my 30s I can enjoy the little things. I am pretty terrible at this roadcycling stuff, especially hills. But God, I love it anyway. We'll be doing this ride again. And thank you, Somervillain!

Not exactly of the "Ride 'em Cowboy" genre..

There were no "pony" pictures taken of us kids while growing up. We lived in the country so the fellows that went around to the "big city" with their ponies, didn't come our way. Although, there is one of my Uncle Bill taken about 1940 (give or take a couple of years), and I found one of two of my cousins taken about 15 years later that looked like it was the same horse! But then, last week I was scanning the last box of my Dad's pictures and discovered this…

I absolutely fell in love with this picture - it is a photo postcard and because it only filled up 2/3 of the front of the card I've cropped out the borders and enlarged it a bit to show the details. There is so much going on - the colt in front, the chickens scurrying around the horses hoofs, the barefoot girl atop the horse, and the man holding the reins. It's static, yet dynamic, at the same time!

The postcard was sent to Amanda Wiseman, Warsaw Ind RR#1 and postmarked at 6 PM on Jul 23. The city is not legible and the year is missing. The one-cent stamp has "909" stamped in ink, perhaps it is the year 1909? Eileen Hover, the little girl on the horse, was born April 21, 1904.

My Dad wrote at the top of the postcard "Uncle Hank Hover & Allein" and on the next line "Bessie, Edie, & Charlie Hovers father"

The message, written by Lue Hover, says "Dear Sister will Write a few lines to let you know we are all well it is raining to day Smith is up stairs a sleep Will write more soon if you answer the letter I did write"

Hank Hover's full name was William Henry Hover. He was the fifth of six children born to of George and Rachel (Van Curen) Hover. George passed away in 1855, just three years after Hank was born. In 1859, Rachel married William Alexander. Their first child was Amanda Alexander who married Samuel Wiseman - they are my great grandparents.

I'm not sure exactly where Hank Hover and his family lived but it couldn't have been too far from the farm of Amanda and Sam Wiseman, perhaps a few miles - they both lived in Tippecanoe Township, Kosciusko County, Indiana.

Last year I posted a photo of the Hover children, Bessie, Edith and Charlie. They were Hank's children from his first marriage with Elizabeth Biltz. Eileen Hover was Hank's daughter from his second marriage to Lula Crawford, the writer of the postcard.

This post was written for and contributed to the 78th edition of the Carnival of Genealogy :: Ride Em Cowboy: Let's See Your Pony Pictures!

The Florida Crowd Lands in Chesapeake

It is feeling like a little mini-reunion here to us.

Last year, we hardly saw any of our winter friends, even though we hoped to. This year we had low expectations in this area, so we've been thrilled beyond words to have Florida friends around since we left Florida. Granted, it will not stay that way, but we are loving it for now.

Jack and Diane and their family Jim and Marlene are still at the park. Tracy and Jim are still here too. They had landed here while we were still here last time, with Lee and Judy, but I didn't see them. It was great to see then again.On top of that, Karen and Tom are here. I have to stop and share a story about Karen here. Austin was telling Aric about Karen, because he hadn't met her yet. He says she is sooooooo nice. I compared her to someone else who I thought was sweet in the same kind of way and Austin said oh no, she is way sweeter. She is in a class all of her own. You can't compare Karen to ANYONE else. I think he has a little crush on her. Not that I can blame him because she is in a class all of her own, both inside and out.

We have enough people to play pickleball each day. Today we played twice in fact. It was hot in the morning and then cool in the evening. I prefer evening play, not only because of the weather, but because I hate playing in the morning due to my hating to be awake in the morning.

Our travel buddies are supposed to come tonight and that will just add to our contentment of being surrounded by enjoyable people.

Living the life in now sunny Virginia!

WHAT... There's still ice

Just when I thought it was over. Ice season had ended. Low and behold there's (a little) more. We were given a bit of good news the other day. Laura caught wind from a good friend of ours that there was still some climbable ice if we were interested. Of course we were. He told her of a still fat 20' pillar tucked away in a shaded little nook. She called to tell me right away. Other than somemixed stuff with poorly bonded "snice" we really haven't had much climbable ice in a few weeks due to the heavy rains and unseasonable warm temperatures. Eagerly we made the half hour approach to see if we could squeeze in one more ice climb. Sure enough there was a short 20' pillar with a mixed exit that was still in good condition. Granted it wasn't a rope stretcher by any means, but it sure was fun to get on a little more ice. It was smooth and lovely (a little hollow), but amazing compared to anything I'd seen in a while now. Not to mention that it was a beautiful day for a walk in the woods. A much appreciated thanks goes out to the searching samurai that gave us the tip on this little beauty. Here's a few pictures of our fun outing.

As we set out. I'll admit I was doubtful

a little break for the passing trains, will there be ice?

Here's what we found. Hard to believe!

Laura finishing a screw unaware of the muck that lies ahead

On the ride home we stopped to check

out other ice enthusiasts

Traveling from Dublin to the Antrim Coast, with Luggage and a Brompton

I am staying in a remote area on the Antrim Coast in Northern Ireland, near the town of Ballycastle. Getting here from the suburbs of Dublin was quite something, though very much worth it in the end. I had with me three pieces of luggage: A suitcase on wheels, my fully folded Brompton bicycle sheathed in a cloth cover, and a Carradice City Folder bag that can also be carried as a shoulder bag. I am an average sized female with below-average upper body strength, and lugging these 3 things around on my own through the various segments of the trip was doable. I rolled the suitcase in my left hand, carried the Carradice across my chest messenger style, and carried the Brompton by the frame in my right hand. This last part was the most difficult for me. The Brompton weighs over 20lb and I can only carry it in one hand for so long, especially if I am also dragging other things at the same time. But again, doable.




As is probably obvious by the rolling suitcase, this is not the sort of trip where I planned to ride to the train station and to my destination upon arrival. I am not touring, but rather traveling with a bike, which I intend to use once I settle in. I will be here for a while, staying in the same place the entire time, and so I wanted to be comfortable, have plenty of clothes to change into, and have all the camera equipment I wanted with me. I thoroughly researched the transportation situation in advance and determined that for the last leg of my trip, a bus could drop me off within walking distance of the place I am staying despite its remoteness. There is also a local commuter train (DART) that stops just down the road of where I stayed in Dun Laoghaire and goes directly to the train station in Dublin. I was a little nervous of course that things don't always work out in reality as they should, but I had an emergency taxi fund just in case.






The main leg of the trip was taking the train from Dublin to Belfast. These leave from Connelly Station in Dublin and they run roughly every hour on weekdays. I knew that it was supposed to be hassle-free to travel to Northern Ireland. But I didn't expect that it would be quite this nonchalant. There was nothing about the ticket purchasing or boarding experience to indicate that we would be crossing a border. I simply bought a ticket to Belfast. No one asked me to show ID. No one asked why I was traveling there.




The train station itself was a remarkably calm place compared to other train stations I have been to in large cities. No pushing, no yelling, quiet, everyone incredibly courteous. A few people tried to help me with my luggage at various stages. I wasn't struggling with it, so I think the motivation might have been a sense of fairness - that they had none and I had three pieces, so they might as well carry some of mine to even it out.






On the platform I saw a man with a folding bike and a couple of large bags. He must have been watching me also, because when the train arrived he pointed to an entrance indicating that I should use that one. I did, and it contained a nice empty luggage compartment. I easily fit both my suitcase and my bike on the middle shelf. I then sat nearby with the Carradice bag on the floor next to me.




Once the passengers settled in and the controller checked everyone's tickets, a trolley cart was brought by selling food. I bought a hot tea, and the server asked whether it was okay to give me change in pounds sterling, since he was out of change in euros. This was the first indication that anything would be different at our destination.






The train from Dublin to Belfast proceeds mostly along the coast, and the views are beautiful. The sun even came out. I relaxed and felt pleased at how well everything was going.




An hour and a half later, the train broke down. We waited inside for 15 minutes as they tried to fix it, but were finally asked to disembark. It was then announced that we would be switching to a local service commuter train for the remainder of the journey, and that this train was waiting for us on a platform a short walk away, accessible by multiple staircases. An elderly lady beside me poked me with her elbow, winked, and said "Welcome to Northern Ireland."




I braced myself for the ordeal of multiple staircase climbs with a suitcase and a Brompton, but thankfully there were lifts, so it wasn't that bad. However, the commuter train was crowded with locals and did not have luggage compartments. I stacked my things in a corner near one of the exists, found a seat from which I could keep an eye on it, and hoped for the best.



At length we arrived in Belfast. I expected a busy station and a rush to get off the train, but there was neither. No one shoved me or even expressed annoyance at my things being piled in front of an exit. My suitcase was promptly placed on the platform for me by a huge hand whose owner I didn't even have a chance to glimpse, and I quickly grabbed the bike, worried that who-ever tried to help with it would try to pick it up by the (bottomless) bag.






The Belfast Central Rail Station is very small. There is a ticket stand, two tiny coffee shops, and two bank machines: one dispensing pounds sterling, the other dispensing euros. The one dispensing pounds was out of order. As luck would have it, I hadn't brought any cash in GBP, figuring I'd easily withdraw it here. So I bought a coffee, paid with a 20 euro note, and got the change back in pounds. A few others had the same idea and the coffee shop became the currency exchange booth.




Speaking as a visitor, it felt a little disorienting that there was nothing acknowledging a border between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, and yet there was suddenly a different currency system.A local radio station was playing, and in between songs the announcer said something like "the weather across the United Kingdom is beautiful today" and that too felt odd, since at no point had there been signs or announcements mentioning the United Kingdom.It's hard to explain, but the dichotomy feels confusing.







At the Belfast Central Rail Station, I bought a ticket for the local train to a place called Ballymena, which was the closest train station to my destination. These trains also ran very frequently, which impressed me given how sparsely populated County Antrim is. At the end of each train car, there was a section dedicated to bikes and baby strollers, with liftable seats. I easily stored my luggage there. The train route from Belfast to Ballymena is mostly inland, and there I saw saw some light industry and some farms. The landscape in this area looked a little stark compared to the Eastern coastline.




Up until this point it had been sunny, but as soon as the train stopped at Ballymena and I disembarked, it began pouring. Thankfully the Ulster Bus terminal was just across the road and it was covered. I carried my luggage there and found the Ballycastle bus stop. According to the schedule posted, the next bus was due to arrive in just 5 minutes. I was alone in the terminal except for a man in his 60s, who was pacing back and forth nearby. So far in Ireland, I have found it impossible to occupy the same space as someone else without ending up having a chat with them, and this was no exception. Within minutes I learned that the gentleman was a retired policeman who lived in the area and enjoyed a free bus pass on account of being a pensioner. Glancing at his watch, he gleefully announced that my bus was already late and that I was lucky if it showed up in the next half hour despite was the schedule said. "He's probably stopped for a sandwich, or having a chat with his mate," the man speculated cheerfully. However, the bus pulled up only a few minutes behind schedule.




Incredibly, it looked like I was to be the only passenger and the driver suggested that I simply toss my luggage onto the front row of seats. That is what I did, then sat down next to it.






We traveled 27 miles from the inland town of Ballymena to the coastal town of Ballycastle, as the weather alternated between glorious sunshine and dark skies with pelting rain. We passed mostly farmlands with lots and lots of baby lambs. Occasionally there was a village center, then back to lambs. They were beautiful and fluffy and I began to get sleepy counting them.




As we approached the coast, the driver asked me where I wanted him to stop. This sort of stunned me, but he assured me that he had nothing better to do and might as well take me to my door so that I didn't have to walk. As a dramatic view of the sea opened up in front of us, I told him the address and that is where he dropped me off.






And so finally there I was, with my suitcase, my Carradice bag and my Brompton, ringing the door bell of my new residence. At this point I was utterly exhausted. But all things considered I think the trip went well. I left Dublin at 7:40am and arrived at Ballycastle just past 12:30 in the afternoon. I managed fine with my luggage, and now here I am settled in and with my own bike on the Antrim Coast.




The transportation system in Northern Ireland is impressive as far as density of coverage and the frequency with which the local buses and trains run; I had not expected anything nearly this good. For anyone interested in traveling through County Antrim, you can definitely do so without the hassle of renting a car. Prices for buses and trains are reasonable, and the stops take you not only to local village centers but also to remote scenic locations along the coast such as the Giant's Causeway.Traveling with a folding bike should not be a problem, especially if it's one that folds up as small as the Brompton. For anybody considering visiting the Antrim Coast in this manner, I highly recommend it.

Idyllic Trail Through the Charles River Reservation

When most people ride on the Charles River trail, they keep to the popular loop around Boston and Cambridge. However, the trail goes on (and on and on), through beautiful reservation lands along the narrowing Charles River all the way to West Newton, Waltham and Weston.

The last time I mentioned this route, a couple of people asked me for more information, since most Charles River Trail maps indicate that it ends in Watertown. The best online maps I have found are these:
. from Boston to Watertown (the popular loop)
. from Watertown to West Newton
. from West Newton to Weston
These show you the side-streets you need to look for in your neighborhood in order to get to the trail (everything represented in green has the trail going through it).

Once you pass the point in Watertown where the popular route ends, the trail continues across the street. The entrance is narrow and easy to miss, so watch for the sign above.

There are a few instances where the trail interrupts, in which case the connector route is marked on the sidewalk with these "Blue Heron tracks".

An actual heron on the trail.

Here are some photos to give you an idea what this lesser-known part of the trail looks like. It is narrower and more "woodsy" than the popular Charles River loop. Fewer people, too.

The river is quite narrow here, and most of the bridges across it are pedestrian. They are beautiful and fun to cross, offering views of lily pads and miniature waterfalls.

There are several unpaved stretches, and many long stretches of boardwalk over marshland, with built-in observation decks. We had no problems cycling through the unpaved stretches on the Pashleys, and we saw roadbikes riding through them as well.

Another wooden bridge, and the entrance to Landry Park in Waltham.

This is home to the Charles River Museum of Industry. We have not gotten beyond this point yet, but as the map here indicates, the trail continues in the same manner towards Weston.

Altogether, it looks like the Charles River Trail might be 15 miles or so each way. If you are looking to get from West Newton to the center of Boston like MamaVee, I am guessing that this is maybe a 10 mile trip? If you are local and do this regularly, I welcome your thoughts about this trail and its use as a commuter route.