I love my house. I loved it the first moment I walked through the door. Having just seen 28 houses I did not love, the decision to buy came easily. Over the years it has given me many reasons to stay enamored.
Last week I was standing on the bed, opening a small, high window to invite some fresh air. "Let me see out the window," said three-year-old Charlie, and I scooped him up for a look.
Five years into fishing village life I've become a tad indifferent to the sight of the sea. It's nearly always there in the background and except for beach trips, doesn't garner too much of my attention.
It had been too long since I'd looked out this window.
Designed to catch the breeze coming in off the water, it faces straight out to the ocean. We are at the top of one of a pair of hills that contain the town, and we can see the whole of the Academy topping the other. The rise and slope of our hills remind me that we are on top of mountains. They begin deep beneath the sea, part of the northernmost extent of the Appalachian chain.
At this time of year we can see not just Front Harbour, which is visible year-round save for heavy fog days; we can also see Back Harbour through the still-bare trees across the street. The harbours glint two slighly different blues, while the sky makes it a trio.
The odd sailboat drifts by.
All this is fascinating to Charlie, although nothing more so than the neighbor's laundry drying on the line directly below us. I am braced for an interesting discussion one of these days with Herb Zinck about his stripey pyjamas.