And here I am, home again.

We left the island at about noon, after stopping for a last windy walk along the seawall. It was 35 degrees, a full-on November day, and I filled my pockets with wet snail shells. Then on we went, pausing for lunch at a Bangor truck stop and finally turning into our own driveway just before dark.

Now the forecast for our first morning back is snow/sleet/rain. Nothing has started to fall yet, but the temperature hovers at the freezing mark, and T will likely have a sloppy drive into work. I'll be back at my desk--editing, answering emails, sorting through Monson conference stuff--plus dealing with piles of laundry, house chores, and groceries. But at least I am well again. Despite all of the sorrows of our visit, my body did, finally, decide to start recovering. The Victorians were not wrong about sea-air convalescence.

I finished Zadie Smith's On Beauty, which I hope to discuss with you in the next couple of days. Now I am temporarily reading a lousy mystery novel that I snitched from a shelf in the cottage. It's no good, but who leaves a mystery--even a badly written one--before it's been solved?

I hope to go out with the poets tonight, but we'll see what the weather says.