There are no curtains or shades over the windows in the bedroom downstairs. Lovely in theory. The king-sized bed nearly fills the room. It is surrounded by a floor border of polished wood. Bookshelves line the space underneath the bank of windows, which face directly onto the working harbor.
The lobstermen begin to leave their precise moorings at 4:30 each morning, local time, the distinctive diesel rumble unmistakable through the four inch space in a raised window.
After the first night in the cottage, Buck and I sought retreat from this early morning splendor in the smaller, child’s bedroom upstairs. It has a solid wall on the easterly side. We found a way to block light from the room’s two windows, and piled pillows on the twin beds like children playing at building a fort.
This morning, I opened that upstairs bedroom door, stretching like a contented old cat and rubbing sleep from my eyes, grateful that my body was singing rather than complaining from yesterday’s mountain hike. I stepped into the other upstairs room. It’s set up as an office for the architect/owner. I literally gasped at the sight of the sunrise burning off fog in the harbor, and almost cried at the beauty. Even now, listening, I hear gulls, low murmur of engines (and the change in tone as gears shift), one man’s voice and his companion’s answer. Sunlight is on my fingers as I type, on my coffee mug which is white and adorned with gold moons and stars, and even on the mostly gone chunk of pumpkin chocolate-chip bread I bought at Gott’s Store yesterday.