I know many readers may tire of my New England travelogue photos, but I am the Editor so, if you don't like them, don't look at them. It will take a while to complete this photo dump. Meanwhile, catch up on our holiday weekend posts which were rich with stuff.
Your Editor and Mrs. Editor have been on lower Cape Cod ("lower" means upper on the Cape. You go "up" when you go down to Hyannis. Figure that out. Less confusing to call it the "outer" Cape, but that's too easy) for an extra-long soul-feeding weekend, as we require an annual immersion in the smell of hot Pitch Pine, hot sand, salt air, chilly baptismal salt water, beach grass, and the endless clams and oysters and raw Atlantic Bluefin tuna on which we feed. Our goal is eternity as a Great Black-Backed Gull, sitting on sand bars, staring at the horizon, and feeding on whatever gets washed up by the sea.
However, these first pics are for our pal Sipp. Newcomb Hollow, sunrise this past weekend, and ye olde Beachcomber in the early morning light. The local Cumby opens at 5, and I am always there by 5 with the fishermen - and I mean the pros, not the amateurs. The rough gnarly guys in boots who ain't askeered of drowning and who shamelessly hit on the gals at the counter with promises like "We could have lotsa fun tonight when I get back if you would just give me a nice smile."
I like to make my early morning rounds to see what is going on.
If you squint and stare straight east, on a clear day you might see the coast of Portugal in the far distance, just over the horizon.