Another windy, 60-degree November morning on Goose Cove. But today is the last day. Tonight the weather will change, and tomorrow we'll wake up in a different bed, in a different town, in a different state of mind.

It's barely light outside, but enough to see the flat tide rolling in against the rocks, the pointed trees crowding the shore, the dim twist of Swan's Island against the low clouds. Behind me the coffee pot mutters and spits; before me a cloud-sky dips like a weight over the mild sea.

Yesterday we climbed the south slope of Cadillac Mountain, not all the way to the summit but along a ridge that opened into a series of views like this one--across the valley and over misty Frenchman Bay. Then we turned downhill, clambering among granite and roots down to a twisting stream. It was about a 5-mile hike, and I worried some about my problematic feet, but with babying they did fine, and I was glad to discover that at 58 I still have the lungs and the legs to spend all afternoon scrabbling up and down a big hill.

And then, back at the cottage, I heated up minestrone, made a sautéed red pepper salad, spread parsley butter on toast, and we entertained our friends for dinner.

Today we'll do some chores for them . . . stack wood, plant garlic, whatever they need, and by mid-afternoon we'll be on the road, heading inland to Monson, and dreaming of April, when we'll be back.

Maine is ridiculously beautiful. What luck to have ended up in this place.