The Fog Rolls Into Monhegan

This morning on Monhegan, we wake to gray skies and cold damp air. The Cathedral Woods trail can wait till tomorrow. I have been thinking about it for fifteen years, ever since I stumbled on it by accident and was enchanted that such a place could exist on this tiny rocky island. I can’t help but wonder if I will still feel the same tomorrow.

In the late afternoon, the sky lightens and a thin fog rolls in.  Michael grabs his camera and walks to the lighthouse. I remain curled up in the living room deep into the story of The Secret Life of Violet Grant.

By dinner, it is nice enough to eat outside, so nice in fact that after dinner I ask Michael if he would like to take a walk down to the harbor.  We gather up the dishes and take them inside, grabbing our sweatshirts just in case.  Less than five minutes later we emerge from the house, stepping out into a cold wet fog.  I’m a bit taken aback. How can the weather change so drastically in such a short time? This is beyond the scope of my original proposal. To walk or not to walk? That is the question.

 

A Walk in the Fog

We walk. Down to the harbor and back. Up into the hills and beyond.

A large group of youngsters plays ball on the church green. More kids want to join the ball game. There are cries of protest from the winning team. The rules are they have to start from scratch with each new participant. I gather this from all of the yelling–back and forth. We don’t wait to see who will win the argument.

It sounds and looks like someone is having a party on the broad porch of the Island Inn.  The Barnacle Café, sitting at the foot of the town dock, is still open, but out of coffee. Dedicated plein air painters are out by the water, capturing the foggy evening light. We stumble on a bocce ball court. I knew they were becoming a universal phenomenon.

Through dimly lit windows we see couples dining at the Monhegan House. We have reservations for Friday evening and hope to dine on food that is reputedly better than any on the mainland. Hard to believe, I know.

Continuing up the hill is a pristinely perfect bright yellow house trimmed in white, one of the two houses for sale on the island. No water view. 1,200 square feet. Only two owners in one hundred years—$625,000.  We curl back around to our street, walking to the end and down to the rocks and water.  It is low tide. The rocks go on forever.

Back on our front porch, we look across the water to Manana Island but it is not there. It is held in the impenetrable embrace of the swirling mist.