Back to the Island

If once you have slept on an island You'll never be quite the same; You may look as you looked the day before And go by the same old name, You may bustle about in street and shop You may sit at home and sew, But you'll see blue water and wheeling gulls Wherever your feet may go. You may chat with the neighbors of this and that And close to your fire keep, But you'll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell And tides beat through your sleep. Oh! you won't know why and you can't say how Such a change upon you came, But once you have slept on an island, You'll never be quite the same. "If Once You Have Slept On An Island" - Rachel Field

I am returned from my annual pilgrimage to Great Chebeague. I partook in island rituals generations old. I could be depended upon to run up to Ed's each morning for the papers and whatever provisions were needed to see us through the day. I practiced the Chebeague Wave, that acknowledgement of casually lifted fingers off the steering column as one passed fellow motorists on the rough roads. I dug for mussels off Hayden's Beach. I discovered a trick to calm my suicidal brain when addressing the ball at Great Chebeague Golf Club. And I cooked for the sheer pleasure of making others happy. It was a sublime visit, the best in eight years of summering there.

I had two greetings upon arriving. The first was on the waterfront at the Rí Rá. It was World Cup season again, and my favorite pub promised plenty of big screen entertainment and perfect Guinness draughts. Over a pint or two (or three), I caught a couple of really good matches there. The second greeting was a welcoming party - Old Thumper in hand - at Chandler's Landing as the ferry delivered me to the island.

Except for one sweltering day, the weather was perfect. Warm sunny days, cool breezy nights. There was even one 15-minute cloudburst causing us to dash shrieking indoors one morning.

Of course there was seafood, good cheer, and scenery for days.

My mood always seemed to mimic that of the Island's.

By the end, I was in a Zen-like state of stillness. A leaf on the wind. A ripple in a pond. A footprint in the sand. You get the idea.

And naturally, there was cooking. Lots and lots of cooking. But that's a story for another day.

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food