A solid lobster roll – plump meat unfettered by mayo or secret sauce – is worth the drive to Maine alone. Last month I had the excuse of scouting and reviewing the cosy, nine-room Captain Fairfield Inn, for work, which, it turns out, is a much better cover-up for a summery lobster roll craving in March. Despite a season spent canvassing nearly 240-piney, boggy, craggy miles on foot, earning rent (and splinters) splitting firewood and nestling in quaint Camden for a few months, along with return trips over the years, I will never get enough of Maine. It’s rugged, a bit stand-offish and slow to warm-up: all the makings of the perfect crush, no? We were all so charmed by the off-season pace of leisurely dinners, wide open vistas and satisfying silence, that I hope we’ll make this an annual family trek.