Monica and I are sitting on the wrap-around porch of a housekeeping cabin in Lincolnville, Maine, gazing out at a blue wedge of Penobscott Bay, most of which is hidden by a wall of green trees catching the 6:15 P.M. falling sunlight. The heat of the day -- 85 degrees Farenheit at one point -- has seeped from the air, and we're sitting in shadows. The sounds of traffic on US Route 1 can be heard coming from behind our plastic chairs. All else is tranquil.
Without a boat to call home, we're having a new Maine experience. I do regret not bringing Robin north, but now we're learning to enjoy this great place in a different way.
Not ten feet from my right shoulder, the nearest branches of a woodlot reach toward us. Some of them have green berries along with their leaves. We can't identify the trees. We're hoping that in the morning, they'll be filled with berry-eating birds that we can identify.
I would guess that the cottage is about 100 feet in elevation above the bay. There is a gravel road passing 100 feet or so in front of the cabin and that road descends through a field toward the bay. In time, we'll investigate to determine how close it goes to the bay and whether, should I locate some bait and some fishing gear, it is a good place to cast a line.
With some luck, I might land a fish. There is a charcoal grill about 50 feet from the cabin. Maybe grilled fillet of bluefish is in our gastranomic future.
Or, more likely, another restaurant will be our fate.