Vacation in white and grey

Our first day at Camelot, which is the name the Californian owners gave the small cabin, we were fogged in. I never got out of my pajamas. I knitted for hours on end, sitting in a comfy rocking chair by the hearth, unlit, listening to The Light We Cannot Seen, or may be The Red Badge of Courage. Both providing backgrounds of war and suffering that stood in sharp contrast to our vacation in the land of plenty and peace. The fog and rain were nothing to get worked up about, even if they stayed with us all week.

We had brought Heather Atwood’s new cookbook (In Cod We Trust) and experimented some interesting dishes. We slept late, went to bed late and had no exercise, other than picking blueberries which were everywhere for the taking. One day we went to Rockland to the Farnsworth Museum, admiring the art of three generations of Wyeths, but mostly Andy Wyeth’s masterful watercolors.

During one brief interlude of sun we explored the cove down the street for mussels. We found only very few. Axel discovered a few small green crabs hovering around the pockets under the seaweed where the mussels must have lived in great quantities. He was ruthless in eliminating them, as there were few left. It is not in accordance with our Quaker principles but they are the enemy, having decimated Lobster Cove’s mussel population.

We had oysters in empty Boothbay Harbor. When it was dry we walked in the other direction to Newagen, at the end of Southport island or we visited Southport’s stunning public library to check out their book sale tables or to get a brief moment of connection with the outside world through their free internet . I used it for downloading audible books and jigsaw puzzles rather than checking email. I had found myself weaned quite quickly from that habit.

We sat on the Newagen pier trying to pierce the thick fog with our eyes. Somewhere there was a famous lighthouse on a small island nearby. Occasionally tourists stopped by and asked about the lighthouse. They must have thought we were locals, and asked about the lighthouse. Axel had memorized the plaque at the entrance of the pier and pointed into the whiteness saying that is about ‘about there.’  They left, their cameras unused, shrugging their shoulders, some lighthouse. We stayed for hours. I knitted. When we left to walk home we each had a thin layer of tiny droplets  on our heads, from the soft wet wind.

We learned later that the lighthouse keeper’s cottage is for rent. For a minimum of 2 nights it costs around one thousand dollars. I can just imagine the brochure with its photos of an attractive place with 360 degree views. I hope no one was staying there that first week because the views would have been missing most of the time and the rain kept coming back.

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