It's a cold dawn. The wind continues to howl, and the gulls tip sideways against the gusts, as if they're avoiding a wall. This morning is our last in the cottage; we won't be back till April.

Health-wise, I feel much better . . . not 100 percent cured but 90 percent at least. Otherwise it's been a sorrowful visit, between the loss of Curtis and the loss of the cat, and the nights have had a certain Irish wake quality. Still, we did hike; we did get chores done around the place; we did sleep late and read a lot and indulge ourselves in idleness.

Now I am drinking my coffee and staring into the flying air. Now I am watching the clouds roll, the water shiver, the trees vibrate in the constant blow. This place is not my home, but for 20 years it's been my small doorway into a secret garden.