A few last souvenirs from Mount Desert Island.
We go through cat withdrawal on the island. We miss our five and look forward to the daily photos our cat sitter posts on her company's Facebook page. This year, Lion finally came out of hiding and let her pet him and play with him. And it seems to me that Wendy likes her more (or at least fears her less) than me. That's life.
We occupy ourselves with cat-spotting as we walk back and forth between town and our inn. This is the only neighborhood cat we saw:
Some petting was allowed to us, but then he went right back to his business of rolling about on the driveway and looking aloof:
We also spotted this doe cleaning out a neighbor's bird feeder. The picture is awful because it was dark and we were far away, of course. We love to see deer and look for them constantly; the island is supposed to be overcrowded with them but we consider ourselves lucky to spot even one on each trip. This year we saw three, including two does grazing by the road.
We caught a sunset from the balcony of the Bar Harbor inn. It's dark enough that the big parking lot at the dock is obscured. That's Bar Island on the right. At low tide, there's a sand bar so people can walk over to the island, where there's very little to do. (No one lives there now; it used to be more of a destination long ago.) Bar Harbor is named for the sand bar; someone told us he heard it was so named because it was a popular drinking spot, and we were all, "Wrong!"
This is the Margaret Todd, a four-masted schooner that sails out of Bar Harbor for a few short cruises daily, including one at sunset. It's a big boat and gets very crowded with families and kids, so not for me. There's a six-passenger sailboat out of Southwest Harbor that is a more comfortable experience. Maybe we'll do that next month and invite the innkeepers; it's my birthday....
I'm not sure what this shrub is but it looks like it has a million pairs of fairy dancing slippers dangling from its stems:
Day-glo petunias in the windowboxes of the local hair salon, Sargasso. It continually reminds me of this novel, which I found kind of disturbing, being a fan of Jane Eyre since I was eight. I have a feeling that the salon might have been named for sargasso seaweed. I've never been in, but I have a feeling it's my kind of place.
My newer swimsuits either have ruching or many useless pleats all the way around the waist that are suppose to be slimming but only add bulk.
With all that fabric, they take forever to dry, so I hang them in the morning sun on our porch:
I like the prints but these suits drive me crazy; their mesh linings work their way out from the leg openings when they are wet, too.
We stopped at Sprague's in Wiscasset for more medicinal hot dogs on our way home to Boston, and the experience was seasonably summery this time: