Sunday morning I woke to fog rolling across the cove, making the air molecules cool and damp. Bubo and I breakfasted on the rocky beach during the low tide, watching the lobster boats motor about, pulling in their hauls, surrounded by halos of seagulls.
The weather report was delightfully bleak; lightening storms and hail anticipated. But instead of hunkering down against the bluffs and watching the waves, Bubo and I headed south, back to Brooklyn. We encountered driving rain the entire trip down and arrived home drenched and exhausted.
Amazing how a wild and wooly New England adventure can sap one’s energy. We’ve been recovering with copious amounts of tea and Poirot. Nothing like caffeine and mysteries to get one’s little grey cells firing.
Welcome home, indeed.
