This time last night, I was leaning back into my chair at the dinner table, watching a handful of fishing boats head in for the night, lazily eyeing the last sip of a perfectly chilled rosé. The island was perfect: two restaurants, one general store, a post office and a handful of guest homes. Not a gas station, grocery store or video rental place in sight. I rented a mountain bike and cycled along its 18-mile shore; in two hours, I think I saw under 10 cars.
I didn't have a choice: I had to relax. There was nothing to do except spend hours wandering the beaches in search of sea glass, or trolling the shores with camera in hand, waiting for that perfect piece of weathered driftwood to photograph.
Tonight, I don't care how much lies ahead this week. It suddenly doesn't bother me that I don't know where I'll be living in 12 days (perhaps in a hostel? or at the train station?). I'm still on proverbial island time, lazily slurping down summer blackberries while ravens' calls scrape the sky. I'll blog about real life tomorrow; tonight, I'm going upstairs to close my eyes and imagine that the bedroom light is the September sun filtering down between high clouds while I drift away to the sound of the surf lapping the rocky beach.
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