We were in lovely Brooklin, Maine for ten consecutive, glorious days. There was writing, of course, but little work-work. More time was spent playing than anything.
The Goldfinch Girl and I went swimming almost every day, either in the cove in front of our rented cottage or at other little beaches on Allen Cove. In this part of the world, a beach is more often than not a little crescent of gravel carved out of the rock. The ocean is cold compared to many places, but certainly swimmable, especially if you dangle your hands in the water before you dive, to get your heart ready. The sensations after we swim to shore and collapse into our beach chairs – skin tingling until the sun warms it, salt on our lips and lashes – is sublime.
We hiked some of the trails maintained by the Blue Hill Heritage Trust and the Island Heritage Trust of Deer Isle/Stonington. Some are rocky and root-y, some feature a pine needle cushion underfoot. The best ones run along or to the shore. It is August, so it is common to find ripe blueberries along the way, available for the picking.
Bird life – both seabirds and song birds – was abundant. Our screen porch doubled as an observation deck for osprey, terns, sandpipers, yellow legs and more. A hermit thrush hung out in the towering pines behind the cottage, serenading us in the afternoons and evenings. The feeders brought us purple finches, chickadees, and woodpeckers.
Some days, fog danced and swirled on the cove, making our world seem small, quiet, soft. On those that dawned sunny and clear, the shimmer of the light on the water was mesmerizing.
We ate grilled fish and chicken, crab cakes and sweet corn salad studded with local tomatoes.
I wrote most every morning until noon, read about ten novels, slept deeply most nights and ate leftover blueberry pie for breakfast.
What did you do on your summer vacation? You took one, right?
