Sitting at the restaurant “bah” in”Bahston” eating a fish sandwich and a pizza with an all to crackery crust. Huge glass pane windows open up to a cove of the Atlantic. The setting sun hides behind a thick grey band of clouds obscuring all but a few hues of red and orange as there are no other clouds to reflect back the sunset colors. The musky ocean smells of salt and mud do not penetrate the bar.

A few lone walkers move slowly along the stretch of grey sand beach to the north. An inland waterway exposes sand bars at a very low tide (I’m told). Wooden buildings and homes line the south shore of the cove: a red brick school, a church with a steeple and red brick chimneys against white wooden houses.

Jen and I plan the weekend and enjoy a few schooners of beer.

The bar pulses in a cacophony of patron conversations. The struggling Red Sox score a run on the big screen.