I visited every state in New England -here's why now is the best time to go

There's clearly something in the soil. How else to explain the explosion of hydrangeas - big, blousy and unbelievably blue?

I reckon there's something in the water, too.

'Your wife's so pretty, you've gotta be a rich man!' hollers the driver of a Jeep, passing my husband and me on a shingled path.

Moments earlier, he'd been accosted by a woman shouting: 'I love your hair! Fantastic colour!'

He's completely grey.

This is Nantucket - thirty miles south of Cape Cod and half way to La-La Land - where everything's delightful and everyone's delirious.

And I could stay forever.

Or certainly longer than the single night we'd assigned on our road trip of New England.

Scars from previous family expeditions - top to toe Italy and a frenzied circumference of Germany in Covid - had just about faded when my husband suggested a westward jaunt.

To the land of taxes, tips and Trump? How many mad men can a world take?

But what Donald's done to the dollar ($1.35 to the pound) is good news for us Brits who can get more bang for our buck over The Pond.

Throw in discounted flights, thinning crowds (the Trump slump in tourism has its benefits) plus a 3,000-mile itinerary in a country where fuel is cheaper than chips and we're booking flights faster than a president slapping on a tariff.

The north-eastern shoulder of America, stretching from southern outpost of Nantucket to span Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Maine and Vermont, has long been a shoulder season destination: feted for its flaming fall foliage and the best lobster in the world.

We fly into New York, by way of an appetizer, to give our three children – Rose, 19, Evie, 18 and Felix, 13 – their first bite of the Big Apple.

Ruinously expensive even for solo travellers, I fear breaking the bank with a family of five.

Thankfully, the Moxy chain – Marriot's funky and affordable offshoot - is changing all that.

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We divide our stay between Moxy Chelsea, a bustling midtown base, and Moxy Lower East Side. Cheaper than a central London Travelodge on a Saturday night and decidedly more hip, they attract a young, savvy crowd.

Stylish compact rooms leave no millimetre unused – old and unsavvy, we discover on leaving that the safe is under the bed - while vast floor to ceiling views cry out to be explored.

We cram in as much as two days will allow, using New York City Passes to do landmarks for less. We end atop the Rockefeller Centre, strapped to its newest view: a mechanical beam recreating the 1930s photograph of ironworkers eating lunch 850 feet above ground.

'It could be cheesy,' warns Rose. But like everything else in this irresistible city, it's anything but.

Time for the open road and our set of wheels. Felix almost bursts with excitement when he sees it; I worry we'll burst the boot with our ever-growing luggage.

I needn't have. The bright orange Jeep Wrangler, ours for the next three weeks, is perfect for the job: rugged, roomy and so distinctive, we'll never lose it in a carpark.

Baggage in, Bruce on, we power out of the city, strains of Springsteen spiriting us north to Cape Cod.

We break up the four and a half hour drive with a pit stop in Connecticut, home to prestigious Yale.

Normally, we'd make an afternoon of it – guessing house prices and famous graduates - but I'm keen to crack on to our own Ivy League lodgings: the Wequassett.

What started a century ago as a rambling collection of seaside homes is now an understated idyll of upscale clapboard cottages dotted over 27 acres of dreamy gardens. Our immaculate room is a vision of soothing greys; outside, hydrangea-lined lawns roll down to the sandy shallows of Pleasant Bay.

It could be a Nancy Meyers film set. Even Felix clocks the vibe, slipping into his Tom's Trunks. The girls nod in approval. It's time to raise our game.

After a morning of baseball on the beach and fruit skewers by the pool, we're whisked off to the private beach accessible by boat shuttle and sunny Captain John.

I've been told it's a slice of paradise but worry an hour of splendid isolation will bring sunburn. And sharks.

The girls are first to brave the frigid waters, soon joined by a seal who bobs its head above the waves to see what all the shrieking is about.

Our last supper was always going to be tough. British expat head chef James Hackney makes it even worse with a heartbreakingly good meal at Atlantic 28.

I'd happily meet my maker after his lobster carbonara, but am pulled back from the brink by an ingenious apple bombe.

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It would take a bomb to move me on, but move we must, to the cheaper end of town - to Red Jackets, in Hyannis, a budget resort blessed with a good beach.

We use it as a base to explore.

Up The Old King's Highway and east to Provincetown, famous for its LBGTQ lifestyle and whale watching expeditions.

'Make America Gay Again!' screams a banner as we head out to the dock.

We climb aboard the Dolphin Fleet, guaranteeing sightings or your money back for 50 years. No refunds are needed. Each of the eight humpback breaches is as thrilling as the next.

Back on terra firma for a very different tour - a sand safari in a chevvy across 4,000 acres of dunes of Cape Cod's National Seashore.

Founded by Art Costa in 1946 and now run by his son Rob, Art's Dune Tours covers much more than sand.

We bump along the lunar landscape, trying to keep up with our driver Mark's quick-fire commentary: settlers, love shacks, why he wouldn't put it past the President to sell their sand to the Arabs. He finishes recounting Steve McQueen's high-speed buggy chase, when filming the first Thomas Crown Affair here.

As I step out of the car, I feel I've been in one myself.

None of us know it yet but what we need is Nantucket.

Early clues to its relaxed finery come in the world's most photogenic ferry queue. An over-excited fiancée is waiting for her bachelorette party to arrive.

'It's my favourite place in the world!' she tells anyone who'll listen. I soon see why.

The size of Manhattan, although with a fraction of its population, the island's awash with charm and money.

The Siasconset Bluff Walk, on the eastern shore, is so captivating you don't know whether to point the camera at the waves rolling in beneath you or the waterfront mansions behind.

'If you're lucky enough to be on Nantucket, you're lucky enough,' reads a cutesy sign on the footpath.

Eric Schmidt, former CEO of Google and owner of a $42 million beach house here, might quibble at the luck part but you get the drift.

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We stay at The Summer House on Ocean Avenue, home to the island's famous restaurant, and even more famous sing-a-longs.

Dwellings are a collection of deceptively simple cottages overlooking the Atlantic.

'Old bedrooms, new bathrooms,' approves Rose inside, a dig at our antiquated facilities at home.

We intend to spend the afternoon using the free public buses to explore. Then hotel owner, Danielle de Benedictis, invites us for lunch and best laid plans are put to shame

I spend the next two hours enthralled - by a poached seafood salad and Danielle's celebrity tales: Billy Joel on the baby grand; Bob De Niro, incognito; James Cagney whose visit was immortalised with a cottage named after him.

We don't spy any stars that night although I'm told the young man in the baseball cap who assumes pole position by the piano has a clutch of Grammys.

We eat famously, sing badly and sleep soundly. It's a terrible wrench to leave.

Back to the mainland where the gas station improves the mood - certainly with my husband.

'2.84 dollars a gallon!' he cries from the pump. We work out that filling up the car is three times cheaper than at home.

We suddenly feel flush - good job as our next stop is Rhode Island, synonymous with old money charm.

To the Preserve Sporting Club and Resort whose sprawling grounds and generous living quarters give off a gilded air.

Our family 'unit' turns out to be a fully equipped three-storey house. I christen the washing machine - the playground of the wealthy is no place for 10-day-old shorts on the shooting range.

The children speed off on golf buggies hot on the heels of Richie Rich, a more reassuring instructor you'd be hard to find, and his dreamy English setter, Bougie.

I hit the clay on my first go but am so jolted by the recoil I hand the gun straight back. My family fare much better.

Felix, fond of the odd computer game, is thrilled to be declared a natural. My husband and I exchange suspicious looks - that trigger finger didn't grow overnight.

The rural heart of New England beckons and to Vermont, breaking the journey overnight at the Berkshires, a rural highland in west Massachusetts.

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Doctor Sax House, chic and boutique, provides stylish repose: Dyson hairdryers are the first surprise followed by bartender Sam's knock-out margaritas.

A quick morning hike around Olivia's Outlook clears the cobwebs and we're off on the four-hour leg to Vermont.

We drive to North Adams to catch part of the Mohawk trail, coming off at Greenfield to join the I95 and then work our way along the base of the Green Mountains to join scenic Route 100, all the way up to Stowe.

My husband, who's been jotting down dream drives like a boy with his Christmas list, is in his element. So is the Jeep Wrangler, purring through the pines.

We peel back the roof and breathe in the beauty: bucolic hills, shimmering lakes, all illuminated by such clear light we stop every ten minutes for a photocall.

We arrive at our next destination two hours late.No one minds at The Lodge at Spruce Peak, a ski resort that exudes sophistication and calm.

Nestled at the base of Mount Mansfield, surrounded by 2,000 acres of wilderness, it has everything you'd want from an Alpine village with none of the schlep.

Who knows - maybe the ski valet could coax me back to the slopes.

I could play house all day - pottering from one enormous room to the next - but the children have other plans.

'Bingham Falls!' insists Rose, eager to fulfil her Insta-dream of swimming in the popular waterfall just outside Stowe.

Bikinis on, we're back in the Jeep – but first, a detour north through Smugglers Notch.

One of Vermont's coolest mountain passes, it's named after the smugglers who used the route to transport contraband goods between Vermont and British Canada before the war of 1812.

At its narrowest point, boulders encroach from both sides rendering the road barely wide enough for two vehicles. It's not the safest spot for a selfie, but there's no telling my husband.

Nor is there any telling the children when we reach the 40 foot fall that a quick dip will do.

Hand it to them, they've got stamina. When they finally admit defeat – after one hour submerged in the near-freezing waters – two of them have all but lost circulation.

'I'm so refreshed!' beams Felix, unbothered by his blueish tinge. Nature's exhilaration at its best.

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There's plenty to be had in this wholesome state where everyone's happiest outdoors.

'I thought I was a lake person,' says a woman in the bar over a Spruce Peak Spritz that evening. 'But maybe I'm more mountain.'

It's easy to see why. Chatter turns to Mount Mansfield and cherished memories made there: a summit marriage proposal, stone hut Thanksgivings, spectacular displays of the northern lights.

We haven't even got to the world class skiing, but then a mountain's not just for Christmas.

Nor is it for the faint hearted, as we discover on crossing the border to New Hampshire and driving up Mount Washington.

It's said purists walk and the lazy drive but there's nothing easy about the snaking seven-mile road that climbs over 4000 ft in elevation and has half the car closing their eyes in fear at every hair pin bend.

By the time we close in on the 6288ft peak, by now enveloped in thick fog, I'm praying for deliverance – in the form of the summit gift shop.

One fridge magnet and a 'This Car Climbed Mount Washington' bumper sticker later and we're making a measured descent, stopping to cool down the brakes and murmur 'thanks be to God - and Jeep' as we go.

We swap one summit for another – to the Omni Mount Washington, site of the Bretton Woods summit of July 1944, where delegates from 44 countries gathered and the World Bank was born.

One of the last surviving grand hotels in the White Mountains, it's an impressive sight – its piercing red roof seems to run for miles.

At the opening ceremony in 1902 constructor Joseph Stickney told the audience, 'Look at me, gentlemen ... for I am the poor fool who built all this!'

Within a year he was dead at the age of 64 due to a heart attack. But as Kevin McCloud knows, a grand design can do that to a man.

I love its sweeping grandeur and sense of history – the grandfather clock in the lobby would have seen a President or two.

I half wish I had something formal for dinner but then look around to see a sea of shorts.

God bless America.

Morning brings the wonderfully named Loon Mountain and a family mountain bike session, minus mother. They return muddied but unbowed. Felix declares it the best day yet.

Time for the lakes to get a look-in and we leave on the Kancamagus highway heading south to Lake Winnipesauke, a popular tourist area and home to dozens of lakeside towns.

But first a search for loons, large ducklike birds with a haunting cry that are one of the region's best-loved symbols – and my husband's latest obsession.

Alas, the Loon Centre outside Wolfeboro is fresh out of them – they've already migrated. And so do we - to Maine.

It's cold and wet when we arrive in Boothbay Harbour so we take shelter in Gimbel's, a warren of a country store.

Rose, who's just spotted a woman wearing a striped lobster jumper, is determined to track it down.

'I've found it!' she soon cries from the basement. Ten minutes later we leave the store wearing three of them.

'They're crazy,' says my husband to the woman behind the till, nodding at my daughters and me in our matching crustaceans.

'Ever think you're the crazy one for marrying her ?' she replies, looking at me.

I've heard much about Maine, land of lobsters and lighthouses. But as we continue our drive north, through dense forested coastlines dotted with pretty harbour villages, I'm blown away by its raw beauty.

Pine and sea salt fill the air, the light is almost celestial.

'I'd rather be unhappy in Maine than happy anywhere else in the world,' wrote novelist E.B. White. I see what he means.

Home for the next three nights is Mount Desert Island and The Asticou hotel, where recent renovations have created a quietly elegant set of accommodations, deeply connected to the landscape.

Our clapboard cottage, tucked away in the trees and overlooking the bay, feels nothing like a hotel but a beautiful home.

Local artwork lines the walls; ornaments and interesting books grace side tables and shelves.

I retreat to the back porch as the girls get busy in the kitchen. A deer darts out from the forest behind me. Maine's magic has begun.

A morning drive to Acadia, New England's only national park and so unspoiled it should really be renamed Arcadia.

We kick off with a three-mile walk around Jordan's Pond, its glassy waters reflecting the image of the Penobscot Mountains like a mirror.

We tick off other landmarks: Bubble Rock and Thunder Hole, but pass on Precipice Trail – nature's glories are glorious enough without hanging from a sheer cliff face.

We finish atop the 1530ft summit of Cadillac Mountain, said to be the first place in the US to see the sunrise. It's just as captivating at sunset.

Our final day is spent in buzzy Bar Harbour – for lunch, shopping and a lobster or two.

An elderly gentleman, carrying a well-worn pink rimmed tote, catches my daughters' attention. They compliment him on his taste.

'Have a nice day,' Evie wishes him.

'Oh, I will,' he says. 'I live here.'

It's with the heaviest hearts we leave for Boston, our final destination.

A lovely compact city, best seen by foot, we squeeze in Harvard before bidding a sad farewell to the Jeep, which by now feels like the 6th member of the family, and say hello again to the Moxy.

Its downtown hotel is close to Boston Common so we kick off there, wandering through America's oldest public park, before ticking off some easy hits: the Cheers Bar, the Boston Tea Party ship.

Call it tourists' fatigue but none of us can face the Freedom Trail. Window shopping on upmarket Newbury Street is all the girls want, while the boys enjoy air con and ice cream in Ben and Jerry's.

Our last night and a date with 18 men at Fenway Park.

Boston's Red Sox are playing the LA Dodgers and as evening approaches, the streets are awash with rival shirts.

We add two final baseball caps to the holiday tally, bringing the total to nine, and join the swarm into the ground. It's utterly electric yet family friendly.

My husband and I join the queue for a beer, one for the homeward road. Or so we think.

'I need to see your ID,' insists the barman.

'I'm 53!' I shout.

'Oh, I believe you, honey, but if you've got no ID, I can't serve you.'

We laugh. It's an inglorious end to a glorious adventure.

We'll be back with proof next time.