Sep 1, 2017
Though the wind was never fierce, there was a crisp freshness about it throughout the year that filled each night with a magic akin to a marshmallow bonfire in mid October. The woodpile out back, kept snug against the house, was filled and used and refilled so continually it seemed to rise and fall with the very waves themselves. The hearth fire at the center of the house boasted a stout circle of large, smooth sea stones found down along the shore line, stacked and moartared the way the old men knew. And in spite of regular washdowns, the line of ash seemed to grow like moss up the inner wall, its specks flickering high up into the open chimney. It was the kind of place that left you cozied up and peaceful even in a storm. Sand ever at the doorway, lumpy quilts aside the hearth bench, the middle drawer of the extra upstairs dresser filled entirely with hand-knit woolen socks.
One thought on “Brumble Cove”
I want to read this book!!! ❤️❤️
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