Island Life
October 19, 2016, 12:37 am
Filed under: when I grow up

“You should really go to the farmer’s market.”

“Did you go to the farmer’s market?”

“I’ll drop you off at the farmer’s market, you’re in for a treat, there’s a guy that makes crepes.”

It’s raining.  The farmer’s market is a series of acceptably shielded tents in a muddy field.  Some muffins, produce.  It’s okay.  Welcome to the island.  On the boat, the windows are kept open to ventilate the oil stove as the rain keeps coming.  A stray box of crackers is subsistence when rowing to shore seems crazy.  Eventually, the rain stops, a long hike to the few restaurants and stores begins.  In town, there’s breakfast whose quality is magnified by its rarity.  There is also a video-rental-and-fishing-tackle store doing brisk business.

The ocean is heaving with life:  seals, endless fish, birds.  Clear water all the way down.  Men pump and bail rainwater from rowboats.

The next night disappears into the rocking of the boat.  For the next few days, off the boat, things keep swaying.  At the pub, between the pints and lost land legs, it’s difficult to use a knife and fork.  Nearby, the farmer’s market is replaced with a community apple press.  One early morning, as the sun comes up, we throw our packs together and go.


Between now and an actual holiday.  There are forty four work days, broken up into increments.   A series of projects to complete, none particularly appealing.

And now for the next trick.  Right now a bureaucratic monster lies ahead, a multi headed beast that we are attacking bit by bit.  The kitchen table is a battleground of documents and records.

Every little thing’s gonna be alright.


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