The house we rented in Maine was on tiny little Rackliff Island, just off the coast of St. George. The drive from Route 1 (coastal Maine's major thoroughfare) was incredible - rolling fields of wildflowers and grass ending right at the rocky shoreline, dotted here and there with (very happy) cows. A few minutes from the house, we would cross a teeny causeway to reach our island, which was ringed by a single road (with a short little spike off at one point).
Each morning, I got up a bit early and took a run (or, on my one hungover morning, a slogging walk) around the island. The loop was just over two miles long, and one of the best parts of each morning was seeing the signs people have hung in front of their homes. Lots of Mainers name their abodes, and even those who don't take pride in marking the spot.
Love the use of the oar here by the Sharpe family - also good to know where you find a spare one, least your drop yours in the ocean or some such thing.
Harbortop might have been my very favorite, with its billowing sails and evocative font. Who doesn't love a schooner, after all?
And then, of course, there was the house itself. Our backyard led down to an east-facing floating dock, the perfect spot for catching some afternoon rays.
Quite a few sun sessions were had, as you can no doubt tell from my freckles and pink cheeks.
The birds liked the dock, too - we found quite a few broken-open mussel shells dropped there each day. Sadly, digging is currently prohibited in the cove, due to some over-pollution. Hopefully the laughing gulls have better defenses built up than we weak humans, eh?
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